A Wildflower Walk

As the summer gasps, shivers and begins to breathe its last, it can be a helpful balm to remember the season at its most quintessential. For me, that usually involves a combination of landscapes, food and people, all of which were mixed together at perfect potency one weekend in early August.

I’d just returned from a long-awaited trip to Denmark, and indeed once this high point was past it felt like the summer must already be winding down. My friends had other ideas though: one of them called me and asked if a group could come up to Parstein for the weekend. It didn’t take me long to accept, and of course the offers of food and wine and cooking sessions together only sweetened the deal.

It was on the first evening, actually only hours after we’d arrived, that we all hit on the idea of taking a walk in the fields. It was August, after all, already, and that meant the long summer nights were not long for this world. We chose a path between Stolzenhagen and Lunow, one that J and I had walked before and spotted dozens of wildflowers in all different colors. The early apple trees would be almost at ripeness as well, so we were sure not to return empty-handed. As we got out of the car and ambled along, the girls separated from the boys in minutes, as one of our lot began picking flowers and forming a bouquet.

My friend Anjali had already expressed interest in flower arranging, but I have to admit I underestimated her talents. She’d already put together a bundle from what was growing in our garden, but this was absolutely magnificent. As we walked along the bouquet grew bigger and more elaborate, as did the wide-ranging fields of flower and corn. Suddenly, Lunow was in sight, but the boys were nowhere to be found. “I’ll bet they’ll be at the pub,” I joked, knowing there was only one in town and in fact in the entire region. One phone call later and it turned out I was right. We settled down for a drink in the rapidly fading light before making our way back across the fields at dusk.

The bouquet found a vase, the vase found a tabletop, and even now, six weeks later, the dried wildflowers give off the faintest whiff of hay and chamomile and fresh grassy perfume when you walk in the room.

(Click on any photo to be taken to the gallery)

Cooking from the Garden

Way back in May (I can’t believe how long ago that feels, and how long ago it actually is) before I’d been to Barcelona and the South of France, Corsica and Denmark, before the summer had even properly started, I was invited down to the house of a friend for an impromptu workshop.

Although I had only met Katrin approximately twice before (once for lunch in Berlin, once at that self-same house in Brandenburg, about an hour south), I call her a “friend” because I consider her a kindred spirit, as Anne of Green Gables would say. We both have houses in the country (although hers is considerably more lovely than mine) and we both take a certain pleasure in gardening, cooking, nature and those slow, thoughtful moments sitting around a table, surveying everything you have worked hard to create, not quite sure what to taste first.

She’d seen my work in Portugal, and was inspired to gather together some other bosom friends for a weekend of inspiration: we would show up on a Saturday just before lunch and leave on Sunday just after. In those 24 hours or so, we would pull, dig and pluck things from the garden, and see what deliciousness we could make out of them.

There was mandolin-sliced kolrabi dipped in a kind of dukkah (courtesy of my suitcase stowaway: grain and seed packets from Trader Joes), strawberry crumble and rhubarb cake, wild herb salad and carrots with tahini, farro with snowpeas and, the next morning, fresh eggs with grated zucchini. In between there was a walk in the woods, many, many chats over wine and coffee, and oh so many photographs.

By the time I left I felt I had made a couple of new friends, while strengthening my camaraderie with old ones. And once again, this life I have built here for myself, this experience stretching over eight years now, came into focus. I thought, as I often do, of all those little moments, those coincidences, that got me where I am right now. How lucky was I to be one of five people of different ages, backgrounds and experiences, and yet to be able to come together over a shared goal, for just one weekend in late spring? Looking back on these photos, it seems very lucky indeed….

Click on the images below to display full galleries.

Preserving Lemons - in Jars, on Film

About a month ago, I finally put some of the skills I learned at the Alentejo Workshop to good use - in my first solo photo shoot for an article on preserved lemons, published in Paste Magazine.

I had hoped rather than expected to jump into this quickly, and in the end, I imagined what would be a three-day venture (a day for making lists and testing out angles, a day for buying props, a day for shooting) turned into one long day of inspiration.

Once I'd set up a "test" shot I simply couldn't stop. Suddenly I was covering windows and moving furniture, standing up backgrounds and throwing tablecloths over my kitchen counters. I dashed out to KaDeWe, Berlin's best department store that also just happens to be steps from where we live, and proceeded to buy a couple of "props" (read: items I really wanted anyway but can now offer up an excuse for purchasing as they are "work").

The little white mortar and pestle, ramekin and silver citrus juicer were all new, for example. The linen tablecloth was a wedding gift, the Provençal pattern a simple swathe of cloth my mom had never used, which she once gave to me and which I'd saved in hopes I'd make pillow covers out of it (no longer). The big blue-and-white bowl, as well as it fits in this faintly French-inspired scene, is an old GDR model. The beautifully patterned jar on the left? A souvenir from a ceramic market in Córdoba several years ago.

Click on the embedded preview above for a link to the article, the thumbnail page below for a link to a gallery of "outtakes" - photos that weren't chosen, but nonetheless make me very proud to have ventured down this particular path.

The Alentejo Workshop

"All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. [...] Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. [...] And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. [...] It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions." - Ira Glass

A few years ago, I went to Morocco to learn how to cook. Well, not exactly. I already knew how to cook when it came to finding recipes, choosing ingredients, and following directions. What I didn’t know was how to improvise, and so I felt I wasn’t really a cook. This trip I went on – a workshop of sorts but really just a lot of food and fun with crazy, spontaneous people – was a way for me to challenge myself and learn something new. I looked at the roster beforehand, and found that I would be there with folks who knew what they were doing – award-winning food bloggers, restaurant owners, food and wine PR people, company owners. I knew I was out of my league, and the combination of excitement and nerves was strangely familiar, like I was once again on the way to my first day of school.

I look back at that workshop – which was marked not by uncertainty about cooking so much as wet shoes, a terrible cold and cancelled trips to the beach, as it turned out we were in Morocco during a storm so severe it practically washed out the streets of Essaouira, our home for four days, and neatly matched the TV images we were seeing of a washed out US East Coast during Hurricane Sandy. But I look back, and I think about that feeling of uncertainty, of only knowing enough to know how little I knew, and then I compare it to how confident I feel in the kitchen now. I routinely plan meals based on what I see at the market – something that would have been unconscionable to me then. I tweak recipes to come up with my own, better versions; I rarely simply do what’s written on the page. This was a skill that had to be learned through practice, and I think of this now, upon my return from another workshop that has challenged me, bashed me up a bit where ego is concerned, introduced me to new ways of looking at the world and new creative yearnings, and once again, taught me just enough to know how very little I know.

This time it was in Portugal on the Alentejo coast, and this time I found myself surrounded not by food industry professionals, but by 12 photographers who knew a lot more than I did. The learning curve was steep, the frustration keenly felt, and of course, by day two, I found myself in the midst of a kind of personal crisis. How to keep your spirit up when you find yourself at the beginning of something that all others around you have seemingly mastered – and effortlessly at that? How to keep trying to get the right shots in the right light after a technical discussion that makes you realize how severely limited you are not just by your skill, but by your camera? Indeed, to paraphrase a famous book, play and film, how do you succeed in photography without really trying?

I found out that photography, more than most other forms of creativity, is where visual art meets performance. Photography is actually a lot more like dancing than it is like painting. It is only when you produce a photograph that looks highly natural, spontaneous, graceful and exciting that your viewers begin to think your process really was all of those things. Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly made it look easy – what’s more, they made it look joyful – and these women I was with seemed to me to do much the same, tapping out a cacophony of shutter openings and closings (most of them, of course, artificial these days, on digital SLR cameras), waltzing and twirling around the room, appearing to know without looking, feel without seeing, where the best light was, where the best angles were, and exactly how far they needed to crouch down or climb up to capture them. Sometimes the entire thing was so complicated and enticing, I had to stop for a moment and watch. Perhaps because I’d given up on getting my own perfect angle, confronted by the sharp elbows and tilted heads and furiously working fingers of so many woman who were better at this than me, I could step back and observe it like a theater scene. Once I did, I could marvel at how each and every person in this room seemed to know the movements of being a photographer. It really was something like a dance.

Here, then, is a tribute to those dancers, myself included. I can think of no better way to give my thanks for the moves they taught me then to present my own collection of photos, which came out better than I ever could have hoped. I feel my own steps getting better now, a few weeks later; I’m more sure-footed when I take them. I can also perceive subtle changes in my attitude, an objectivity that makes me more likely to say, “I did my best, and there are some great shots here” than “I’m sure somebody else would have done better.” I look forward to many more opportunities to improve my camera skills. I know I have a long way to go before I become Fred Astaire.

Click on the images below to display full galleries.

Eulogy to the Peach Tree

We laid the peach tree to rest yesterday. Well, if by “lay to rest” you mean grab hold of the trunk, walking around it in circles to loosen it from the ground, bobbing up and down on it to further loosen it, and then finally yanking it out by the roots, with a small hand-held saw to help us. It was the only tree in the garden this spring not to have sprouted a single leaf or blossom, while the others were already bedecked with petals. The peach tree wasn’t a late bloomer; it was just time for it to go.

It’s funny how, when you’re a gardener, plants can become like pets. Each is a protagonist or minor character in your horticultural play, and there is an absence keenly felt when one exits, stage left. Everyone knows what it’s like to lose a pet, but there’s a certain kind of absurd grief that comes with losing a tree.

The peach tree was, it was pointed out, the most beautiful, the most delicate, and the most susceptible to disease. Funny how those things seem to come together, as beauty in the garden must often equate with fragility. Our rhubarb plants are quite hideous, oversized Jurassic things, although their stalks certainly taste delicious in cakes. The leaves on our squat, shrubby strawberry plants always turn a most obscene shade of reddish yellowish brown and shrivel over winters, but they dutifully grow white flowers with the yellow pads at the center you can already envision as strawberries. The peach tree’s blossoms were always a deep, ruddy pink, its fruits always small but perfect.

Those first few years with it were like a childhood dream come true – that first time you grow something in your very own garden that you have seen for sale all your life, it’s always like a small miracle. We picked the fuzzy, pink-salmon-yellow fruits and made jams and pies, we marveled at the fact that a tree like this was even possible in northern Germany.

But then it turns out it really wasn’t. Two years ago, disease hit. The normally delicate, long wispy green leaves turned gnarled, bulbous, red and bubbly with boils. The illness caught the leaves even as they emerged from their branches. And I thought, “how unfeeling, not even to allow the tree a moment to breathe, stretch, and glory in its loveliness.”

The tree fought on valiantly, like a hospital patient who knows he’s headed for hospice care, still squeezing out leaves, still – unbelievably – producing smaller and smaller fruits, which glowed even as everything else shriveled up around them. We asked more experienced neighbors for help, we cursed, we denied, and finally, this year, we mourned.

I’ve found there’s a certain predictability to telling people about Parstein. They ask how big it is, they ask if we have a garden and how big that is. When I start to list the fruit trees – apple, pear, plum – they nod silently, expectantly. It’s only when I get to “peach” that the nodding stops and you can see their eyes get wider – but just a bit, as if they’re trying to hide their wonder. There’s something particularly magical about having a peach tree – especially when you aren’t in Georgia or South Carolina. There’s a special kind of innocent decadence to the peach tree, a culmination of various picture book stories.

As I watched the tree come down sideways and the roots emerge, I realized that gardening is nothing like in the picture books; it’s muddy and messy and sometimes, not at all fun. You have to battle predators, large and small, winged or slimy, and sometimes, you have to battle the fact that you live in a country where it’s much too cold for peaches.

Let this, then, be a eulogy to the peaches that gave us so much joy, filled our stomachs and fueled our imaginations. To paraphrase a line from one of my favorite films, “For a few years they were mine; that is enough.”


Will 2016 be the year we start talking about failure?

“As long as you have not written that article, that speech, that novel, it could still be good.” –Megan McArdle, Why Writers Are The Worst Procrastinators

A lot of writers I know and read have been talking about failure lately, and it’s not even a coincidence. The beginning of 2016 seems to have hit us particularly hard for some reason.

On February 1st, after a particularly unproductive month, I decided to revisit the conditions of what seemed to be 2015’s winning streak. Last January I took a class called 30 Days, 30 Queries, meant to fight the terror of the pitch by forcing each and every one of us to become an idea-generating, pitch-scribbling machine. If you punched them out quickly and cared less about each one, the theory went, you’d inure yourself to the soul-crushing cycle of hope and rejection that’s sent many a freelancer running back to an office job, and instead set yourself on a surefire path to productivity.

I had quite a bit of luck with this course, taught by a smart, kick-ass journalist who’d had more than her fair share of ups and downs and wasn’t afraid to talk about them. I netted some of my best clips, and was even taught the power of perseverance when an essay of mine was finally accepted by Talking Points Memo, after being rejected on spec by the Washington Post and every other outlet I contacted.

I felt as though I’d challenged myself, forced myself to do the work, as the Megan McArdle article in the Atlantic had said, and come out with a growth mindset instead of a fixed mindset, opening up to further challenges and more self improvement as a writer. I was so pleased with myself, I even wrote down 10 lessons I’d learned about being a freelance writer, posting them online on consecutive days as if I had a captive audience, or really anyone who checked my blog regularly besides mom and dad. I was sure this was just the beginning of my long path towards success as a freelancer, so when I mentored younger versions of myself later in life, I could point to this class as the turning point.

Well, it turns out it’s not that easy. I've spent my first two weeks recreating 30 Days, 30 Queries in February 2016 sending out pitch after pitch, only to be met with rejection (1) or silence (14), forcing me to dwell on my failures, question the legitimacy of my small successes and wonder whether I’m at all cut out for the freelance writing lifestyle.

And in case there was any doubt, it is very much a lifestyle. I’m not talking about the ability to wake up late, take midday naps and prepare luxurious meals every night, all because you’re not spending your waking hours rushing to and from an office. I’m not talking about the ability to take a vacation or a day off at any time (something few freelancers are financially equipped to do, but which nevertheless earns us a reputation for being lazy and entitled). I’m talking about the uncertainty, not just financial and professional but psychological, that very few people my age seem to be able to handle. From that same Atlantic article:

Young people are uncomfortable with the unstructured world of work. No wonder so many elite students go into industries with clear boundaries, like finance and consulting.

It took me a while to realize that many of the smartest kids at my high school and college ended up going into finance or becoming lawyers. I could think of a few who’d gone in to more creative feels, but only after they’d added that self-satisfying and somehow worth-affirming MFA to their CVs. Very few had lit out for a career entirely of their own making, because when you build your ideal career from the ground up, there are no bosses, colleagues or mentors to help you along the way.

And that’s the fundamental thing about freelancing. There is no other freelancer out there with your background, your talent (or lack thereof), and your set of goals. If you’re successful, you can look at where you’ve been and feel like everything happened for a reason, everything clicked into place as it should have, and now you’re here and you feel great about it. If you’re unsuccessful, though, it’s very hard to look at the million mixed up pieces you’re juggling and pull out the ones that fit together to make that perfect puzzle image you want to be your life.

If you’re a lawyer and you make partner at a law firm, you have your excellent college grades and LSAT scores to thank for getting into one of the top law schools, once there, the stellar grades, connections and recommendations to thank for getting you into a top law firm and finally, a combination of hard work and luck to thank for getting to partner level. If you’re a doctor or in academia, it is much the same: a lot of where you end up has to do with a professional path that’s been laid out for you.

When you’re a freelancer, there is no map because there is no path.

 A couple of years ago, a successful writer told me, “years from now, you’ll look back on everything you did and you’ll see that it all made sense; it all got you to where you are now.” I thought to myself, “you’re only saying that because you’re successful.”

Indeed, I still can’t shake the feeling that for every successful writer out there claiming to look back on it all with clarity and confidence, there must be a hundred or even a thousand writers for whom it all ends up never making much sense. Much like we never hear about “the folks who believed in the mythical ‘N-rays,’ declared that human beings had forty-eight chromosomes, or saw imaginary canals on Mars,” as Ms. McArdle describes, we also never hear about those people who tried for years to sell a manuscript, applied to that fellowship or grant unsuccessfully, or in my case, sent out a pitch a day for 30 days and never got a yes on even one of them.

The narrative when you’re a freelancer is that everything has to happen for a reason, precisely because you’ve got no one around you to tell you what that reason is. This is why so many of us end up in badly paid content mills, begrudgingly sell an article for a pittance because we just need to publish it somewhere, or still accept “exposure” in lieu of payment. 

“Exposure” is the direct result of that little voice inside of you telling you this might be your big break, admonishing you to say yes at all costs, because you just might look back on your yes five years from now, as the royalty checks pour in and the New York Times and the New Yorker fight over your latest think-piece, and see that it all came down to that little article you wrote for no pay for that little website that could.

So failure to find the right kind of work for your bank account or reputation becomes failure to find the right kind of work to add a rung to your ladder to success. Call it freelancer FOMO, but it is the fear of missing out on that contact with an editor who (surprise!) moves on to a bigger and better publication, that set of eyes from an agent at a publishing house who thinks your piece would be just perfect as a memoir. We crank out more and more work as our quest for quality becomes a struggle for quantity, as we try to cover all our bases, to make sure our work appears everywhere – or at least everywhere our rivals' work has appeared.

I wish I could offer up some inspirational quote or wickedly clever aphorism to end this piece, but not knowing where it ends is, too, the nature of failure. We press on with our pitching and our hustling and our invoice writing and bank account checking in hopes that somehow we’ll have a breakthrough, either mental or professional, and it’ll suddenly all make sense. That someday we won’t have to congratulate people younger than we are or people we once offered advice to, then cry tears of rage and clench our fists with jealousy and fear—no, certainty—that it will never be our turn.

These are all the different kinds of failure no one wants to mention, but if 2016 is the year we finally start talking about them, then I’m ready.

I’ve certainly got enough material to fill a book.

We Are Here Now

The best moments […] are when you come across something – a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things – which you had thought special and particular to you. Now here it is, set down by someone else, a person you have never met, someone even who is long dead. And it is as if a hand has come out and taken yours.”
                                                ―  Alan Bennett, The History Boys

So, here we are a week later, and I still find myself with unexpectedly wet cheeks, unconscionably lumpen throat and ringing ears. I’ve heard every version of Major Tom, watched the International Space Station cover, watched Labyrinth and the Making Of, rejoiced in every snaggle-toothed smile, even as I welcomed the heartache. I questioned whether to write this at all.

I’m not much for celebrity worship. I never was. And yet here I am, here we are, and the pain is unbearable. A friend of mine said it best when he said, “as I sit here stunned by this morning's news, I realise I had genuinely believed that David Bowie was immortal.” And that’s really it. From the moment I first saw Labyrinth, followed closely by my dad presenting me with a CD with the same face on its cover, titled “Let’s Dance” and my realization that, “wait a minute, Jareth the Goblin King is a rock star!” David Bowie has felt less like a celebrity than a member of my family.

I remember presenting my new babysitter with my favorite new film to watch for the evening, and being shocked that she knew the person on the cover was a man, not a woman, even though he had long, sleek blond hair that, I thought, rightfully belonged to a woman. I can’t have been more than six (I always had imaginary friends and scenarios as a child) when I paced back and forth in my bedroom, voicing both sides of a conversation between a Labyrinth film tech guy and David Bowie, who in my mind was only Jareth, and unhappy about the direction the film was taking. He was in my head that early, and as I began to discover more and more of his music, he never let go.

What is it to feel the ache of the loss of something that has never truly been yours? Does mourning along with the rest of the world make it feel better or worse? I have this sense – as I feel sure every single one of his fans does – that I am somehow special because I listened to and appreciated his music. And in a way, isn’t that what we’re really doing when we listen to music? Perhaps that isn’t the whole story – after all, their must be something in the bassline and the beat and the melody and the story that grabs us – but when we’re all alone in a room, or walking alone in a city with the music, we are communing with this person that we will never know and yet know so closely. We feel we have been singled out for his message.

So many people attest to this sense of being an outsider, a misfit uncomfortable in our own skin when we were young. I had my own “David Bowie moment” so to speak, when I was around 16 or 17, and discovered the downtown music scene just beginning to burble over the surface in New York. Places like the Lower East Side, Williamsburg and the East Village, which I had barely ever set foot in although they were each a name and a history and an image for me, were suddenly illuminated, through and through. Backrooms of bars, music venues with stages inches off the floor, lofts and apartments, these become the tiny pinpricks of light that spread out to clarify my mind map. I became a creature of the night, even as I did my homework by day, and kept up my grades and looked towards college.

We were all the same odd people who congregated at the foot of these stages, all intent on sacrificing hours of our evenings just to make sure were in the front row, at arm’s length for the best pictures. There I met a fellow photographer, except he wasn’t a fellow at all because he was a professional. In one of our many meetings he let it be known that he had passes to photograph for the Today Show at Rockefeller Center. Did I know who was performing tomorrow at the Today Show?

I didn’t. The today show was the vulgar mainstream. I was a high school rebel rebel.

“David Bowie.”

And even better:

“If you’re willing to get yourself up very early in the morning and come down to Midtown meet me by 6:45, I can get you in. You can even bring a friend.”

The giddiness of that morning is well documented in a blogpost from the time, back when I was New York Doll and thought that name was just adorable:

When I accepted an invitation from a photographer friend of mine covering the Today Show in Rockefeller Center, I also had to accept an enormous amount of skepticism along with it. He actually gave me his cell phone number, just so I could call him when I woke up at 6:00 in the morning and decided that sleep was a lot more important than Bowie. He acted surprised and pleased when I showed up on time that Thursday morning, friend in tow, but his shock certainly could not match the amount of surprise and delight that would be mine when, after leading us around the back of the stage and past a velvet rope, he placed us in the VIP area and told us to wait. “Wait here?” We thought to ourselves, wondering where else there was to go besides this small barricaded area directly in front of the insane fans who had undoubtedly been camped out in their spots since the night before. “Does he mean we’re not staying here?” By the time he came back with photo passes for both of us, and led us to the ten feet of space in front of the stage that served as the photo pit, our eyes had glazed over with sheer disbelief. So what if he only played four songs? We were five feet away from Ziggy Stardust and a million miles from earth.

I don’t remember what songs he played, or even if he performed them well. I remember the few moments afterwards when he came down toward us, and began to greet that line of dedicated, all-nighter fans and sign autographs. I came up behind him, put my hand on his shoulder to try to get him to turn around. Felt my hand connect with warm denim over muscle, before I was gently but firmly pushed back by one of several bodyguards who surrounded him.

“Ma’am, you do not touch Bowie. You do not approach Bowie from behind.”

I could hardly have been shocked or even insulted; for a moment my pumping heart had drowned out the cheers from the crowd. “This,” I thought to myself, “might just be one one-hundredth of what it feels like to be a rockstar.”

In the ensuing years I would pull out those photographs from that morning to admire them, just as I pulled out that memory and marveled at the fact that all these strange details had come together to get me there. I never saw that photographer again, can’t even remember his name.

Over the years David Bowie and I lost each other, but he popped up now and again, perhaps most surprisingly, when I moved to Berlin and found that Berlin and Bowie had had a special relationship – one that anyone who chose this city above other more glamorous locales will recognize and appreciate. I must have passed Hauptstrasse 155 a hundred times without actively registering it; now I live 15 minutes away by foot, and the garden of flowers, notes and candles spilling out around the door made me feel all whirly inside, but also grateful. That same garden of flowers, notes and candles has been sprouting up all over this past week. It’s the same one that comes around after any death, any tragedy or terrorist act. Yet none of it registered with me the way this did. I briefly considered whether this might indicate a severe lack of empathy or skewed values on my part. If that’s the case, there is a problem with all of us.

In considering what Bowie meant to us, and what he didn’t, there is a tendency to resort to hyperbole. I was not a gay man in 1960s London, yearning for someone to show me it was okay to be different. I have never been an aspiring musician looking for a muse or inspiration. I can’t even really claim to have been the most dedicated David Bowie fan in the world.  But I can say that whenever I contemplated his presence on earth, it made me feel a little more joy and a little less sadness. When I listened to his music, it was as if a hand had come out and taken mine.

“You do not touch Bowie.”

And no one ever will.

What I Learned About Being a Writer in 2014 - Tip #10

I learned a lot about being a writer in 2014, and over these ten days, I’ve been sharing some of my tips. Here is Tip #10.

The success of others doesn’t mean your failure; it can mean your success as well.

At this point, you may have noticed a theme here. I think as professional writers, all of us, even those who go around with those moony-eyed looks and dreamy, contented smiles, have experienced jealousy so fiery and bright it almost blinds us. When someone gets a book deal, our first reaction is to seethe before we write a begrudging “congratulations” and “happy for you” in an email or on a Facebook wall. If someone gets an article in the New York Times, it must have been for reasons other than talent/she isn’t that good anyway/that newspaper is going downhill and they’ll take anyone these days. I’m guilty of it; guilty of it all. And I’m sure you are too.

At a certain point, however, I realized that, not only was this line of thinking doing me absolutely no good, it was also keeping me from taking advantage of new and valuable sources of information, usually people fresh from the high of getting said book deal or writing for said influential newspaper who were more than happy to share the story of how they did it. When you were little, perhaps your parents assured you that they loved you and your siblings equally; that their love was not a pie with different sized slices cut out of it; you and your brother or sister each had a whole pie of your very own. Well, success is like that pie: just because someone else got an article published in the New Yorker or the Atlantic doesn’t mean you are any less likely to. The pie doesn’t grow smaller because a fellow writer you know took a piece out of it and you can only take what’s left. You have to bake your own pie (am I taking this metaphor too far?) with ingredients you already have in your own kitchen.

Again, the writers’ groups I belong to have been crucial here. When a writer happily posts an article she has written for The New York Times travel section, I don’t have to give her a half-hearted congratulations while trying to keep that simmer of frustration inside me from boiling over. Instead I can say, “congratulations; tell me how you did it” and she’ll be more than happy to oblige; no one will think the worse of me, or anyone else, for having asked that question, because we are all here to help each other.

We are all here to help each other. Sometimes I think if we were just to remember that phrase and follow it, freelance writers would face higher payment for their articles and more responsive and helpful editors when we pitch and write. If someone else is successful, that means you can be too. Be happy for them and seek to emulate them; it means you’re on your way.

What I Learned About Being a Writer in 2014 - Tip #9

I learned a lot about being a writer in 2014, and over these ten days, I’m sharing some of my tips. Here is Tip #9.

Always ask for more money.

This one is tough. In fact, it’s something I’m still learning but trying to get better at. When you apply for a full-time job, or really any job at all, that pesky little moment comes around when you have to talk about money. Research shows that men are better at this than women, because women tend to second-guess themselves and their worth far more than men do. Unfortunately, if you’re a freelance writer, a mini version of this comes along about once every couple of weeks, or maybe several times a week if you’re really successful at pitching. You’ll pitch a story, an editor will get back to you intrigued, maybe with a few extra questions and directives, and then, before writing the story, you two will have to talk about money.

For most freelancers, sadly, this probably means one thing: the editor proposes a sum, and you say yes to it, too scared to lose the story and a potential client to try and argue for more. In 2014, after several successful attempts at raising my salary for corporate work, I decided I would ask for more money every chance I got. I had once been burned by a boss who practically laughed me out of the room when I tried to get more money from him, but that was six years ago and I was just beginning to understand my worth. If asked to name a price first, I’ll usually take whatever price I expect an editor to say yes to and add quite a bit on top of it, assuming that it may go down due to negotiating. If the editor names a price, I’ll outline how I got more from such-and-such an outlet for a similar piece, and see if he or she can negotiate.

Sometimes this is harder than it looks, as a lot of outlets, especially online ones, will have set-in-stone, low pricing you can either take or leave, along with that possible home for your story. Once in a while I’ll let myself down, panicking when I’m asked for a price and underselling myself, knowing that I’m doing it even as I hit the send button and wait for a reply. I’m trying to get better at this, but I’m encouraged by the fact that I already have. I just added up my finances for 2014 and I made more money than I ever have in a single year as a freelancer. I have to assume some of that came from my determination to always ask for more, and my resolve to give up this fear that doing so might mean losing a potential client. I hope to do even better in 2015.

What I Learned About Being a Writer in 2014 - Tip #8

I learned a lot about being a writer in 2014, and over these ten days, I’m sharing some of my tips. Here is Tip #8.

If you are generous with your time, experience, and contacts, others will be too. But it probably won’t be a 1-to-1 transaction.

This has something to do with Rule 3, and certainly has a lot to do with forging meaningful relationships as a writer, but it is a bit more specific than that. If you had asked me in 2013 or earlier what frustrated me most about being a young and relatively inexperienced writer, I would have replied: the cliques. That was it: all the writing groups out there I wasn’t a part of; all the secret societies I hadn’t been invited to. I truly believed that there was a group of around 10 to 12 writers in Berlin who were getting every story in every major publication, and leaving the rest of us to roll around on the ground, looking for scraps. Why weren’t they giving freely of their help and contacts? How could I get them to? And most of all, how had they risen to that point in their lives where they had help and contacts to give? Who had seen fit, many years ago, to give freely to them? Why weren’t “they” me?

While it’s true that a fair number of very good writers live in Berlin (hey, Berlin still remains cheaper than New York, and even very good writers are hardly very well paid writers; we all need somewhere to live), many of them got to Berlin before it was !!!Berlin!!! and spent years gathering facts, reporting stories, and pitching articles on a city that few—or at least fewer—outlets were particularly interested in. They did their time before I arrived. I know many more of them now and you know what? They have been extremely kind and generous, giving freely of their time, expertise, and occasionally even contacts.

Meanwhile, I’ve stopped being afraid to ask for that help, and instead, have started to focus on my own sort of giving. You remember back in Rule 3, when I said that 2014 was the year I started thinking of myself as a legitimate writer, and stopped thinking of myself as a hopeless mooch who would never have anything to offer? 2014 was also the year I realized that giving generously could translate into receiving generously, but it would rarely be a one-to-one transaction. This means that you should answer questions when you can, direct other writers to editors if they’re looking for them, discuss and critique written work as you would wish others to discuss and critique your own, and be generous with your time if it means helping someone else take a step you once found daunting. It also means not expecting those exact people to repay you in those exact ways. It may be that someone you help will be hard to get in touch with when you need help in return, but someone else down the line will probably make up for it, popping up and giving you assistance at exactly the right time, astonishing you with his or her generosity.

There was a time when I got self-righteously annoyed with how helpful I was being; pissed off that this person or that person seemed to have taken my advice, run with it, and not bothered to thank me. Then I remembered that I once did that as an inexperienced writer and was rightfully called out on it. I also remembered the numerous people I barely knew at the time, who have since become good friends and reliable confidantes, who proved their goodness early on by giving me direction without my even asking for it. Their advice resulted in paid articles or good clips, in an unforgettable experience or a much-need confidence boost. Keep these people close; their generosity was and is advance payment for your own future generosity.