Stranded (in Halifax)

… and no way to make deadline

   I should have been back at my desk by 1000h Monday morning to hammer out my already researched article and email it to my editor by noon. Instead, I was stranded in the Halifax International Airport with an 11-hour wait for the next available plane to Montreal, with no laptop, no cell phone (I don’t own one) and no possible way to write that article.

   I had flown out of Montreal the previous Thursday morning – destination St. John’s and a late-February hiking trip. I was not carrying my mobile office or copies of work in progress. After all, it was just a weekend getaway. What could possibly go wrong?

Flex Time

Carving up the day

   I abandoned my office at three o’clock last Friday. I bought a couple of things at Mountain Equipment Co-op and then headed across the Champlain Bridge for a supper date with my daughter. “What should I write on The Mercenary Pen this week,” I asked her as we chilled in her apartment after our evening out. “Why don’t you write about how you used to walk me to school every day,” she suggested.

   One of the great pleasures of being a freelance writer is that, within certain limits, I can usually slip out of the house most any day if something or someone needs my attention. Don’t get me wrong though. This is a full-time gig. I have a full plate and many schedules to respect. However, to cite one of my favourite examples, if I want to pay proper homage to a sunny summer day with a bike ride by the river, I can.

Tick-Tock-Tick Talk

The virtues of tracking office hours

   “Now how do you know that?” my father in law asked me. We were digesting our Christmas turkey and I had just mentioned that I worked eight hours more in 2010 than in 2009. “I can tell you to within five minutes how much I’ve worked every day since May 2005,” I replied.

   In the one office job I ever had, I was paid to be there and was always “working”, whether I was at my desk, propping up the water cooler or twiddling my thumbs in useless meetings.

What the Heck’s a Deck?

Article anatomy point-one-oh-one

   Of the many parts of an article, a writer need only know five by name: Title, deck, lead, sidebar and cutline.

   A title introduces and sells the story. It can be cute and cosy - de rigueur for backyard birdfeeder magazines. The trade publications world is usually more restrained. There is the ‘just the facts M’am’ model, represented by titles such as my Parking Garage at Portland Int'l Includes Office Space & Green Features. Some magazines give writers wriggle room to innovate and even have some careful fun. I study each magazine’s style and frequently re-check even old acquaintances to make sure I don’t drift.

Singin’ in the Bathtub

Putting the heat to writer’s block

   I started writing a 1,500-word draft yesterday. By day’s end I’d netted 509w, including two titles and some text with “doomed” stamped all over it. I’ve done worse, but I’ve also had sessions where my draft shot out like Grammy Pearl’s ninth baby.

    As a non-fiction writer, the ore body I mine is parked next to my draft in the form of interview notes and other collected documents and images. I don’t build worlds from scratch, so my writer’s blocks are usually small. I am, however, a fussbudget and therein lies my torment.

A Freelancer’s Buffet

Some of my favourite things

   Astronauts, project managers, CEOs, engineers, physicists, architects, metallurgists, maintenance managers, truckers, hijacking victims, union bosses, border guards, widows, scientists, railroaders, air traffic controllers, ships’ captains, mountaineers, security chiefs and detectives, because I get to talk with them.

   Bull pens, commuting, rush hour, half-hour lunches, payroll deductions, Saturday shopping, ties, polished shoes, scary bosses, office politics, annoying colleagues, cubicles, reporting on pot holes, owners’ children, backstabbing, meetings and company computers, because I do not have to endure them.