All in good fun, of course

(*NO, not a ‘ sex-thing’. It was the kids. Promise)

There’s the washing, over there. I suppose I should be sorting them into colours and whites. My son has a runny nose {Insert candlestick metaphor}.

I don’t even need to ask if their teeth has been brushed. Of course they haven’t.

I haven’t packed snacks for the  ’somewhere else’ that just drifted a few minutes closer. I haven’t checked to see if my mobile is charged, if I have spare change.

My daughter has shoes on; the wrong shoes. Sandals. IN WINTER. Now I’ll have to spend five minutes trying to convince why it’s in her best interest to take them off and put boots as I convince my son not to change back into his Elmo pyjamas.

All this while I sit here when I shouldn’t be. Checking Twitter. Checking emails. Getting angry at myself for not getting work done, and being jealous of people who are, and even if they aren’t and just saying they are, then that’s okay too.

My book re-writes have stalled. I have a good night and then four bad ones. I’m tired. The rats have re-entered our roof and frolic all night behind our headboard. I hate the fuckers. HATE THEM.

Almost as much as I hate being unproductive.

That’s why I shouldn’t be here. So I’m going now.

I’m still ploughing through Bel Canto, so my library borrowing was pretty light this week. The last three issues of Australian Book Review, the Ian Fleming because I want to see what he’s like, and Tender Morsels because the title seems vaguely familar.

Riley, however, sat transfixed. More for the dancing than the music, I think. Only by the 1990’s era did I truly feel some sort of hardened memories of the man. I remembered I bought ‘Dangerous’ from a second-hand CD shop and later pawned it back in one of the few times I’ve needed quick money. Suddenly, I felt quite disappointed. Just in case I was wrong I went to our neglected CD cabinet (who honestly uses them anymore?) and there on the fourth bottom shelf, there was ‘Dangerous’! I must’ve hocked some others.

So all Sunday I had ‘Dangerous’ playing on a loop, as I chuckled to myself that I was able to recall all of the words to “Give Into Me”, his version of a chest-thumping power ballad, with Lots Of Guitar.

And ever since my Feed Reader has been chock full of testimonials and essays to the man. Words, words words spilled. Words able to be said, words that’ve come so fluidly, so eloquently, as people express their grief.

I have not yet done the same for my father.

This hurts.

And I’m so sorry.

Though once I sit down to ponder it, I realise it already consumes some of my time, and might do yours, too: you ask yourself what do I do about all these emails that keep pouring into my inbox, more and more often?  Do I ignore them? Do I respond? Should I expect compensation?

Or - and this is also asked - how is it you get them and I don’t? I might want these in order to develop my contacts list &/or scope for blogging potential?

The following is an assortment of ideas (and hopefully tips) that I have put together.

I feel I should state that I’m talking here about personal blogs. This is a personal blog and so I must use this as my only reference. It would be wrong to presume I speak for all kinds of blogs written by mothers, as they are so many out there that differ from being purely ‘personal’ so I just want to make that clear.

Question: why am I getting PR emails all of a sudden?

I think as blogging, and throw social media in there as well, is growing in significance in Australia, so has it also become important to certain companies to monitor these blogs and their writers in the hopes ‘they might work together’ some day. This means they hope you mention their stuff for free, or very little in return. They find you if you’ve been lucky enough to be mentioned on any or all of these top blogging lists, (here’s a new one) or also possibly if you feature on the blogroll of the women on these lists. I am on the lists mentioned above, which means I receive releases from both Australia and the United States.

Okay, so what do I do?

That’s really up to you. Most people I know hit delete immediately. I at least skim through the salutation and depending on how it’s addressed influences whether I keep reading. Here’s what I get in order from right to so wrong:

Dear Karen (fine)
Dear miscmum (um - my name IS on my blog, you know)
Dear Karlie (no, try again)
Hey there! (Hey back! Professional much?)
Dear Lady, Blog Owner, Administrator etcetc (blech)
No salutation at all

Then sometimes you might be offered products. Here’s another point: if you’re already affiliated with a blog ad network you might be contractually obligated NOT to do certain promotions or giveaways because they clash with advertisers that are already paying money to appear on your blog. So tread wisely. The same goes when you sign up to more than one ad network.

Let’s assume you’ve read the spiel and think hey this sounds okay, I might re-post this if they give me a free sample or it just seems like an exercise I might like to give a go. If this sounds like you, and here is my point, then go ahead if it works for you. Does it work for your readers? That’s another question entirely.

In the spirit of disclosure, I don’t think I’ve yet done something similar. The only exception is if I write a blog post for a charity that will make the charity money (something I did do recently). I’m not being negative in writing product reviews here, not at all. I understand a lot of people like to do it. I am just stressing you should do it with your eyes open and attentive to all pervading factors. If I were to do something like this in the future there would have to be some exceptional perks!

What I usually say to people who email me is: “If you want your product on miscmum.com I have ad space available for you to purchase. I do not do reviews.” Keep it short and sweet. Interestingly, since I’ve nutted out that philosophy I’ve been getting emails back saying, “Thank you for your honesty.” I then get offered tickets to a movie premiere. So you could be surprised.

And last, here’s something interesting:

These rates are based on the 2008 National Freelance Rates approved by the Media, Entertainment and Arts Alliance and apply to all genres except poetry. The rates are exclusive of GST.
Per day $813.00
Per half day (2/3 day rate) $542.00
Per hour $203.00
1000 words or less $829.00
Per word thereafter $0.83

This information is public. You can find it here. You mightn’t even have known it existed, which is forgiveable, but now you do. I should stress at this point that although these are the desired and approved rates  - and for freelancers it’s the per word rate which is typically most pertinent to their concerns - many publications don’t offer them: you are told, “We pay X per word” and it’s not negotiable. This is mostly tolerable because most often publications are reasonable. (And lucky you if you score a writing gig for an inflight magazine, as they often pay over $1 per word).

I mention all this because when I see the occasional job opening posted for paid blogging positions that offer as little as two cents a word, I can’t help but get slightly incredulous and confused. Why throw away your labour for next to nothing? I can certainly understand if the position were one that that would offer some kind of security, but even then there would have to be other consolations, such as if the subject were one you were passionate about.

The real point of this post - the bit where I sit here, chewing my nails, in thought - is how I feel this is connected to the wider social/feminist issues these questions raise about how mothers put a price on their labour and whether the returns are a) fair and b) worthwhile. Perhaps I’ve been burned too much by our former Howard government, who wanted nothing more than to hoik mothers out of the home and back into the ‘real’ workplace. I don’t feel the fact that our homes are real workplaces, too, with our own challenges, ambitions, frustrations and, yes, money-earning capacities ever got mentioned in their rhetoric.

I daresay I find this confusing because I find myself straddled between these two worlds. I make a little money, but not much (and certainly not as much as others). I’m fine with that. I don’t consider myself an expert. I’m fine with that, too.

I welcome your thoughts in the comments section. How do you feel? Have you got it all worked out or are you confused too? Do you think this subject gets talked about enough? Do you even feel like it is an issue or are you happy as you are?

{She points to the open manuscript as I type its revisions into the computer.}

Me: It is.

Keira: Is it also going to be in a bookshop one day?

Me: I sincerely hope so.

{Pause}

Me: Yes? What else?

Keira: Can you wipe off my boogers, please?

It’s now the season for my cherry to be in full blossom - well, it would be in full blossom if the top leaves weren’t still there, charred and angry-looking. I’ve been waiting for them to drop, but I won’t think they will. It’s like they’re soldered to the branch.

Here’s an azalea that I thought was gone, dead. I was about to dig it up. Now its sprouting again and even though it still looks pretty ugly, my hand’s been stayed. I want to give the bugger a chance.

I read ‘The Spare Room’ in two hours last Friday night, a loan from the much loved Gen. I borrowed ‘Bel Canto’ because a friend of mine has been begging me to read it and ‘Stardust’ because I’m on a bit of a Neil Gaiman binge. The books behind are what we’ve got on our bookshelf at the moment. Peruse at your will, if you wish.

This was our birthday present to Keira, the “Children’s Map of Europe” which you can get for $24.95 at such places like these. I do have one slight quibble, and that is the borderlines between countries are quite hard to find/follow.

However, the reason I do like it - the reason I bought it - is for the detail in the illustrations, all the minuscule pictures of animals, places of interest, foods, cultural spots, to be found in each region. Sometimes Keira asks about a particular place, and then we go look it up on the computer.

For example, the other day she asked after the caption of the abbey/island of Mont Saint-Michel* and so we went and looked it up together on my laptop, thanks to the wonders of wireless.

Its dimensions are 130 x 94cms, so it’s not a little thing. But worth it.

* Fabulous place I’d love to go to, incidentally! She has good taste.

You’ve gotten my kids interested in cooking. Do you know how many nights I’ve contemptuously thrown the dinner plates down in front of them? I’ve gone through dusters before a cookbook has left its musty place on the shelf. Then you come along, with little bantam George Calombaris and that degustantional goliath Matt Preston, to teach them the importance of presentation, tastes and textures?

Thanks to you I recently entered a home supplies store voluntarily to purchase my first ever thermometer for non-human use. You’ve offered me what I suspect is a false sense of capability. When the saleswoman asked if the thermometer was for making jam, I said, “It just might!” I forgot in that moment that heating sugar, for me, is best left to stirring a spoonful into my coffee. Anyone who watches the show may have already guessed why I decided I needed that tool – to make the perfect hot chip. The ever bankable potato is a saviour for the parents of picky eaters, who can always count on that vegetable to add to the daily tally. Sometimes it’s the only one.

You’re a clever one, aren’t you? I thought I was over cooking shows. I really don’t want to see how many ways you can use a fennel or any other vegetable my husband will lift his nose at. My father was the same – I remember when he once turned to me and asked, “What’s a broccolini?” No, for a while I wished for a show to show me how to easily scour dried egg of the egg ring or petrified weetbix out of the breakfast bowl. Or how best to tell a tantruming three-year old that one biscuit really is enough, it really, really is.

I see you, don’t forget Masterchef. I know underneath it all you’re a creature of reality television. Your contestants are well aware of the Darwinian principles that only the strongest and best will survive. The trouble is as each person leaves, my children feel the loss more, as they become characters to a show they create parallel narratives for.

Finally, why did you have to be on in winter? The season of comfort foods and the mantra ‘just one more won’t hurt’? I guess I’ll just have to wait for The Biggest Loser to come on in the summer to lose all the weight I’ve gained.

Yes, thanks a bunch.