I wasn’t in the market for a job, but I felt strangely compelled to apply. The application required more time and effort than I should have invested in something I didn’t want, but it was an excellent exercise. I had to stop and think about what I’ve accomplished over the past decade. The application forced me to identify and list my skills; quantify and qualify my former and current professional responsibilities; and articulate my career goals. It also made me take a hard look at the choices I’ve made– why an MSW over a Masters in Journalism or Latin American Studies? I turned it all over in my mind for a bit.

Then, I hit “Send” and didn’t give the application a second thought.

The next day, the bureau chief emailed to say that she thought my application was strong and she wanted to see some of my editorial work. If she liked what she saw, we’d proceed with scheduling an interview.

Gulp.

Was I truly a competitive candidate amongst applicants who were probably more qualified (at least academically) than I, vying for this position in a tough economy? The thought that the answer was “Yes” was a serious confidence booster.

I pulled together some writing and editing samples and sent them to her the same day. Then, I sat back and started thinking: If this got to the point where I was offered a job, what was I going to do?

There was a handful of reasons why I really couldn’t take the job, chief among them being that Francisco can’t travel or live legally outside the US. There were more reasons why I wasn’t sure I wanted the job, including the fact that it was for a massive organization that was surely bureaucratic and I don’t function well in that type of environment. There was also the fact that I was pretty happy with what I was/am doing. Still, there were some dangling carrots: the (presumed) boost that working for this organization would likely give my career; the experience of working for a major news outlet; the possibility of making a living wage (not an unimportant variable); and, most alluringly, the chance to spend more time in D.F. , Mexico City, my maximum city, the place where I feel best.

As I mulled over all the possibilities, a strange thing happened. I realized that I wasn’t invested in the outcome of this application at all, and the lack of investment meant that I had the courage to ask for almost anything: an above-market salary, the possibility of commuting back and forth, and oh, could they possibly assist with housing and residency in Mexico?

Ultimately, they decided to go with an internal candidate, which was good; I didn’t have to make any tough decisions. But the entire exercise was a really helpful experience, one that gave me reason to pause and assess where I am and what I want, and one that helped me realize something key about myself: Why am I reluctant to ask for what I’m worth and what I deserve when the job is something I DO want, and why am I willing to go all out when the stakes aren’t so high?

The answer isn’t as simple as it might seem, and it’s given me a lot to work with.

Have you ever applied for a job you didn’t really want? Do you have a tough time asking for what you’re worth? I’d love to hear from you in the comments. 

Though I don’t have experience writing memoirs, I didn’t hesitate to say yes.  The opportunity to sit alongside this strong, remarkable woman and be entrusted with the responsibility of hearing her stories and helping her find a way to shape them into a cohesive narrative that would be relevant and meaningful to a mass audience was impossible to decline. Plus, memoir is one of my favorite genres, so I felt I had a solid sense of the elements a powerful and marketable memoir requires. I reckoned I’d figure out the finer points of writing in this genre as I’ve figured out most things in life: by simply doing it.*

*

I enter her home, which is immaculately clean, for our first “formal” interview session. We have agreed we will meet as frequently as feasible in person and weekly by phone so that I can begin recording her history. Out of these early audio files and pages upon pages of written notes, including reminders about follow up questions and other sources I should contact, we will build the eventual book.

But even before I sit down to talk with her, I am distracted. Beyond all she will tell me over time, there will also, I am suddenly realizing, be all she won’t tell me. I am seized with wonder and worry; there’s more to attend to and consider than I initially thought. What is on the record and what is off? Will the books that are sitting on the coffee table–the books that cement an image of her as intellectual and worldly–eventually have some significance? Is she even reading them or are they her husband’s? I don’t know this now, of course,  but I make a note of them. Soon, my notebook is divided into two distinct sections- the notes about what she has said, and the notes about what she hasn’t: the objects in her environment; the places in her home that I’ll ask to see eventually but for which we haven’t yet developed enough rapport; the people whose contact information I’ll ask for months from now.

*

After this first session, which was nearly three hours, I sit down and review my notes. Five pages of what she has told me and my parenthetical notes. Everything seems important, even the details that probably aren’t, like what time we met and where, and what she was wearing. I type the notes and save them in a file and allow myself the little luxury of imagining that someday, these may be part of some university’s or institution’s archives.

Then, I shut the notebook and make an entry on my calendar about next week’s meeting.

–

*or, as they say in Spanish, “aprender caminando,” or “learn while walking.”

I don’t like rejections, of course, but all three of these made sense:

-Rejection One:   The editor liked the idea but the particular department I was pitching within the magazine is about to be eliminated.

-Rejection Two:    The editor thought the idea was a bit too hyperlocal.

-Rejection Three:   The editor thought the idea was too specific.

As several friends and colleagues have recently noted, rejection is vastly preferred over the silent treatment, so the very fact that I received a response was enough to make me satisfied. I could rework my pitches and move on. But in two of the three cases, the editors went a step further, really taking time to interact with me in a meaningful and helpful way. One of the editors, with whom I’d worked before, told me that he knew the quality of my work and that even though this piece wasn’t a good fit, he remained open to me vetting other ideas.

The third editor, who I was querying for the first time, parsed my pitch in a way that helped me understand something about my own idea that I hadn’t quite realized before. We went through a couple rounds of email before he decided that the story wasn’t quite the right fit for his magazine, but the process was extremely valuable and I really appreciated the time he took to talk through ideas. I know that his insight will make my trip back to the drawing board both easier and more productive.

The take-away? Rejection is disappointing, but sometimes it can solidify your relationship with an editor and, in the process, help you clarify your own story ideas. Can you take their feedback gracefully and gratefully? Try it- you’ll be all the better for it.

*

The other take-away lesson of this week is something that contests my long-held belief that you should never pitch on a weekend (and that includes Friday). For the longest time, I thought Fridays were unproductive days for editors. I also followed the advice of writers with more experience, who suggested it wasn’t wise to pitch on the weekend or at some odd hour of the night (truth be told, that’s my most productive time, as everyone’s asleep and I have limited distractions).

Lately, I’ve been looking at my pitch and reply patterns, though, and an interesting trend has emerged. I’m getting far more replies on Fridays and weekends than I am on the pitches I send out on Tuesday or Wednesday, which I once thought were the best days to pitch.

There’s no science to this, of course, and my experience is exactly that– my experience. It may not be similar to yours and just because I’m getting responses at these “odd” times may not mean that the same would be true for you if you suddenly switched from early/mid-week pitching. But the take-away for me is that I don’t have to hold off on pitching until the supposedly “good” moment. When the pitch is solid and well-crafted, I’m going to fire it out of my writer’s cannon, regardless of the day or time.

What lessons have you learned from pitching lately? I’d love to hear from you in the comments. 

–

*In terms of response time, one week is really good (and two of the three rejections were received the same day I sent out my pitch), so the six no-replies don’t concern me yet.

Here’s the description:

This four-hour workshop will help students develop their skills of observation and description. Workshop participants will be immersed in three distinct settings and will be given specific prompts for observing the people and settings around them. After sharing their observations, students will receive feedback about how they can both deepen and expand their ways of seeing, and will learn specific techniques for using these observations in their writing.

There are still a couple more spots available in the workshop, so register soon!

Details about registration can be found here.

1. What makes us resistant to collaboration? 

In one situation, I was organizing an event and was approached by someone who wanted to co-host the event. I was fairly certain he wanted to co-host so he could promote his own projects and products, and initially, I was extremely resistant to bringing him on board; I didn’t want the social event to become a platform for advertising. Also, he’d popped up out of the blue, so he seemed a bit of an opportunist.

I stepped back and thought about his proposal for a few days. Why was I being so resistant to collaborating with him? The person was more of an expert than I about the subject of the event, he’d presumably bring his own network to participate, and perhaps a bit of stumping for his product wasn’t as outrageous as I’d initially thought. I got back to him and invited him to co-host the event, and he was an enthusiastic, gracious, professional collaborator.

2. What makes others resistant to collaboration?

I’m the kind of person who won’t propose a collaboration if I don’t think it’s a win-win for everyone involved and I don’t like to waste people’s time, so if I come to you with a proposal, you can be sure I’ve thought a considerable amount of time about whether we’ll be a good fit.

After proposing something I thought was extremely synergistic to a prospective organizational partner, I received a disappointingly lukewarm response. “Well, if there’s a synergy,” he said, “then we can consider it.” I wanted to say, “Listen, buddy, there IS a synergy; why can’t you see that?” but obviously, I didn’t. Something about the proposal either wasn’t clear or made him feel a bit threatened. Even though I still think there’s great potential to collaborate with this organization, a partnership won’t be beneficial for anyone if one of the stakeholders is suspicious of the other, if one isn’t willing to take some risks, or if one thinks that opportunities are like pizza… ie: there’s a finite amount for each person (which I’ve written about elsewhere).

3. What makes us say “Yes”?

When I think about the way the partnership with the Belize Tourism Board materialized, I’m slightly amazed because we went from concept to contract in less than a month. There could have been–should have been–dozens of obstacles because I was dealing with a bureaucratic, governmental agency, but I had a collaborative partner who was committed to the idea we’d discussed and co-created, and she pushed it through aggressively.

This is key: everyone has to buy in and believe that the partnership is mutually beneficial. They all have to start with optimism and idealism and trust in each other, but they also have to plan to be as objective and honest as possible when assessing the performance of one another.

What in your personality makes you resistant or open to collaboration? What might happen if you said “Yes”? 

Last week, I cleaned my bookshelves, rearranged my bureau, and got rid of my daughters’ broken toys. I made sure all my receipts were properly sorted for taxes. Then, I started cleaning up my digital life. Blogs that hadn’t been updated for months? Out of my reader! Blogs I was reading only out of a sense of obligation, not for joy or true interest? Ditto. People on twitter who only ever talk about themselves or thinly veiled product pimpage? People who only like to create controversy, rather than conversation? Unfollow.

In the last few months of 2011, I made a concentrated effort to get offline more so I could connect with colleagues, acquaintances, and friends who are writers or editors. In almost every single conversation, we would inevitably touch upon frustrations with online personas. The other person would articulate his or her frustration with people who appeared to be having great success but whose product’s quality was questionable at best and piss poor at worst. “So why do you follow them?” I’d ask. More often than not, he or she would look at me as if the thought had never occurred to them. A couple admitted they thought that if they followed or interacted with the other person long enough, that “influential” person might reciprocate by doing something for them. “How do you keep up with your ‘competition’ if you don’t know what they’re doing?” they’d ask.

There are a few ways to answer that question. First, is the person you feel compelled to follow because of the number of his/her followers or his or her supposed reach and “influence” really your competition? Is he or she doing what you want to be doing? If you’re honest with yourself, the answer is usually “No.”

Second, why aren’t you spending the time you’re wasting on following that person’s activities on your own craft and goals?*

I suggested this to one writer who was troubled by the extent to which she was losing time and energy on the dramas of people she followed online.”Try it,” I insisted, “then get back to me and tell me what you think.”

A few months later, the writer had become embroiled in a petty online argument. She’s smart, and was trying to clarify and enlighten in the argument, but no matter: the people arguing didn’t want to be informed or enlightened. They simply wanted to argue. She decided to take a few days’ break from her online life; then, she took my advice and started unfollowing. She wrote to tell me how much more time she had and how much more pleasant her life had become.

There’s a lot of static online. For some reason, many of us convinced ourselves that we have to listen to it. But you don’t. When you tune out the static, you’ll realize that the people creating that static suddenly recede in importance. Their supposed influence diminishes. The quality of your interactions increases.

You can choose to tune out the static. Try it, and let me know how it goes for you.

–

*Note that I’m not arguing that twitter or facebook are time wasters. I don’t think that at all. What I’m saying is that following people you don’t actually like or whose content you don’t find valuable actually steals time from you because you’re investing too much mental/emotional energy in their activities.

What that means is that it’s something I’m passionate about… and it’s something the people I’m working with are passionate about, too, but the project pays below market rate, if it pays at all.

As part of my annual end-of-one-year-beginning-of-another analysis of my work and lifestyle choices, I’ve been thinking a lot about passion projects, and though it may sound Scrooge-y to say so, I’ve come to the conclusion that I have to be much more discerning about the work and projects I’ll take on that don’t involve (fair) compensation in 2012.

I’ve always been a hard worker and I’ve always given my all to support projects I felt were worthy of my time and energy, even if there was nothing but good feeling in it for me. But as a mom and a wife who wants to be present to her family, and as a person who has many interests she doesn’t have time to explore as much as she’d like, it’s time to prioritize and get selective. I won’t be taking on work–writing or otherwise–that pays below market rate, and the “feel-good” projects to which I lend my time have to pass a “major impact” test (as in: Will they have a major impact? For who? How?).

Sure, the world economy (still) sucks. No, writing has never paid exceptionally well. But unless we each set down a quantitative and a qualitative accounting of what we believe our worth is, no one is going to step up to change either of those conditions.

How do you decide when (or if) to take on a passion project? Have a specific example you care to share? I’d love to hear from you in the comments.

I was thrilled; I really wanted to be published by the paper. Moreso, I really wanted the piece to see the light of day rather than sit on my hard drive.

I spent hours and hours and days and days, working on the piece, and sent it off to the editor at the 11th hour. It was returned with comments that would have changed the article substantially, far beyond what I was willing to revise. I let it sit in my inbox for a couple of weeks while I contemplated: Should I make the changes even though they didn’t feel right to me just for the sake of getting published, or should I not make the changes and thank the editor for his time?

There was, of course, a third option- to talk it through with the editor-and that option seems blindingly obvious right now, but it didn’t occur to me at all a year ago. Or it did, but I was too scared.

So what happened? The piece sat on my hard drive and here we are a year later. It’s too late to start from scratch; there’s an element of timeliness that’s been lost for a print publication.

I’m sorry I let the opportunity slip through my hands, but I stand by the original version of the piece, which I just published on my other blog, CollazoProjects.

It’s been incredible for my career and it’s been indispensable in my personal life.

But I’m not talking about Spanish (or French or German or Mandarin or….) when I ask whether you speak another language. I’m talking about the language of other professionals outside your own discipline.

Earlier today, I was on a conference call with more than a dozen staff members of a tourism board’s* public relations and marketing firms; the goal was to streamline efforts and ensure that everyone was aware of each team’s projects. I was probably the only person on the call who doesn’t come from the world of PR and marketing. Though I considered myself to be someone who’s quite comfortable with PR and marketing folks, I quickly realized that people from these fields speak differently–really differently–from writers.

“We have to find our sexy look,” said one person on the call, much to my amusement. Writers say things like, “We have to find our hook” or “We have to find our angle” or “What’s the story?” PR people, apparently, say things like “We have to find our sexy look.” It took me a couple seconds to realize what she was talking about– we have to find the event/experience/idea that will make us stand out, make us different. I wanted to say, “Sexy look? Are you serious?” Instead, I thought about what our sexy look might be.

There were lots of other words used on the call that were fairly foreign to me. I understood what they meant in the context, but they’re words I don’t use in my own daily work and words that would sound strange coming out of my mouth. They aren’t words I want to use, but they’re words that are worth learning– they’ll make for a more effective collaboration.

Now, excuse me while I go back to brainstorming about our verticals.

If you’re collaborating with professionals from other fields, what challenges and opportunities have you encountered? 

*I’ve been working as a manager of a writer- and photographer-in-residence project for the Belize Tourism Board since April.

My next food and travel writing workshop, offered through MatadorU, will be held in New York City on January 21 (a Saturday, by popular request) from 12:30-4:30 PM.

Here’s the description:

Food is a central part of most travel experiences. In this four-hour workshop, participants will learn how to pay more attention to what they eat while they’re traveling, as well as how to write about food in a compelling, memorable way.

There are still a couple more spots available in the workshop, so register soon!

Details about registration can be found here.