Kansas City Freelance Writer Liz Craig

Don’t you sometimes feel that the world is coming at you too fast? The rush of e-mails, ads, news blips, text and phone messages, Twitter, Facebook, and to top it all off, frenetic music coming from your radio or iPod? Are you overloaded and quietly going mad?

Before you start trying on straitjackets, try this: Radio Bach.

“Please stop! Don’t do any more!”

My client’s voice on the phone sounded frightened and panicked. But that was not unusual. What was, though, was that she was stopping me from working on part of a larger project. I had ambivalent feelings about halting mid-project.

On the one hand, I like big, multi-faceted projects like this one, involving both print and Web writing. (And, of course, the ability to bill hours for research, communications, writing, revising, etc.) But on the other hand, I had a major problem with the project. Namely, that try as I might, I could not understand what the client wanted. This kind of client (of whom I have had few) might be called the “Oracle at Delphi” type.

As you will recall from your studies of ancient Greek culture, the Delphic Oracle (a.k.a. the Pythia) was a priestess of Apollo with the gift of prophecy. She sat by a rock out of which certain vapors emanated, which may have been like ancient LSD. She would give you an answer, all right. Several, even, if you had more gold. The only problem was that her pronouncements were subject to many different interpretations.

The Delphic Oracle type of client can be frustrating—and kind of cute; they do try so hard to communicate their needs—but not nearly so crazy-making as the “Black Box” type. This client won’t tell you at all what s/he wants. You have to guess what’s inside the Black Box (the client’s head). Don’t worry, s/he will let you know if you guess wrong. Which, of course, you will.

I am a Gemini, which means Mercury, the astral body named after the messenger to the gods, is my ruling planet. So communication is my happy, happy place. I enjoy it. And I’m pretty good at getting the point and making a point, most of the time, anyway. So I feel terrible when, whether because of the client’s or my own failure to communicate (Did you see an image of Strother Martin wearing mirrored aviators just now? I did.) produces less-than-peachy results.

The most important thing (actually, two things) about which I’m unclear: One, am I off my client’s project, or just on this part of it? And two, is the client panicking because of my bill, which I e-mailed on January 1? Oh, there’s a third thing, the most vital of all: Will I get paid?

I imagine I’ll find out soon. Say, can you direct me to the nearest Delphic Oracle? Umm. Maybe I’d better just consult my Magic 8 Ball.

My little feathered companion, Buster the Parakeet, just didn’t look himself last week. Puffed up like a little ball of feathers, his eyelids drooping, he looked miserable. And I didn’t know what to do.

A Web search yielded lots of different treatments. Keep him in an 80- or 90-degree environment; cover three sides of his cage, put a 60-watt light bulb right next to him. Make sure the air has at least 40% humidity. Who the heck knows? But I started the humidifier just to be safe.

The old sure-fire cure of antibiotic in his drinking water failed to un-puff him. And he didn’t seem to be eating, so I gave him a millet spray. He went after it like a millet addict. He denuded one spray in a matter of minutes. So I gave him another. The next day, another. Then, last night, hallelujah! his puffiness had mostly receded. Except… doesn’t his chest still look puffy? Yes, he looked like a puffer pigeon. More research. The closest answer to what might be wrong: sour crop. That sounds awful. It’s like a super tummy-ache caused by food getting stuck in the crop instead of going through. And the cause could be — MILLET! Gack! I was killing my little Buster with kindness!

It all brought back traumatic memories of the time I killed a dear cockatiel by feeding him the wrong diet. It didn’t help that the bird vet (a mean woman indeed) told me the bird’s liver was “the size of Cleveland” and went on a rant about how people don’t know how to feed birds. I told her he liked bird seed, and she said, “Of course he does! It’s like popcorn!” Who knew? I shudder to remember how my beloved Jou-Jou died right in the vet’s hand as I watched. It couldn’t possibly be happening again!

So no more millet, and Buster’s chest looks less puffy today. He actually chirped a few times yesterday, which is a good sign, since he’s normally a little chatterbox and operatic singer all day long.

We’ll see what today brings. I long to hear his pleasant chirpings. They create the happy soundtrack for my workday. Now, if I can just quit doing the wrong thing, I expect I’ll hear it again very soon.

You go, Buster!

“Liz Craig is wicked smart and a wizard with words. Do your brand a favor and hire her.”
— Joleen K David on Jul 28, 2011

When I moved to Omaha in 1985, I worked as an Associate Creative Director for 19 hellish months at Bozell & Jacobs. I won’t go into detail, but let me say I was not the only creative there who was suffering the slings and arrows of an outrageous GM who crumbled and ate writers and art directors for breakfast like Frosted Mini-Wheats. Nearly everyone in the creative department was taking Xanax, seeing shrinks, or nurturing ulcers.

So it was a sweet relief to be let go during a mass layoff. My art director partner and I rolled our stuff out to the parking lot in a mail cart, and we laughed and laughed and laughed at our great good fortune to have been set free from whatever ring of Dante’s Inferno we’d been inhabiting.

I took the next couple of months off enjoying Thanksgiving and Christmas, and glory be! in January, I got hired at a local ad agency called Smith Kaplan Allen & Reynolds, aka SKAR. My colleague and head of the writers was the kind of woman some women might hate because they’re jealous. A delightfully smart, funny, gorgeous woman named Joleen. I respected her in every way—for her brains, for her client savvy, for her superb strategic thinking and writing, and most of all, for her wacky sense of humor.

These days, we keep in touch via email, and I’ve been back a couple of times to see her and the agency. As the daughter of Wayne Smith, the Smith in Smith Kaplan, now she’s heading up the agency. Under her guidance, the place has been transformed from what was a rather dowdy cubicle city to a cool, sleek, inviting haven for some of the best creatives in the Midwest. Joleen is a natural leader/innovator, and she follows the David Ogilvy philosophy of trying to hire people who are smarter than she is. Which is nearly impossible. But she finds good people and draws the very best out of them.

So thanks, Joleen, for the great recommendation, so many years since I ended my 10-year stint at SKAR., Sometimes I wish I’d stayed, but Kansas City lured me back home, and 15 years and three agencies later, here I am, happily freelancing and recalling the good people and good times at SKAR.

Joleen, I hope you continue to have fun, make money, and always remember me. I’ll remember you, I promise.

If you’re an independent creative working from home, do you ever feel like a latter-day Jacob Marley, your clanking chains making you the prisoner of your computer? Or like chain-gang member Woody Allen in “Take the Money and Run?” (If you like to laugh, please check it out.) Or have you broken your bonds, like escapee Paul Muni in “I Am a Fugitive From a Chain Gang?”

The reason I feel compelled to sit at my desk all day is that most jobs come to me via email, and some must be done post-haste. So when I have to go to the grocery store or pharmacy, I feel as if I’m playing hooky, and I high-tail it back home as soon as I can to check my email.

To feel a captive in one’s own office is not good. There’s a whole wide world out there waiting to be explored! So how can I get out there more?

First idea was to get a smartphone, so I could tell when email came in, and whether I needed to tend to it right away. FAIL! Got a paygo plan that offered a free Samsung phone. Now I know why the phone was free! It stinks. Oh, yes, you can check email, but it takes flippin’ (as dear Sarah P. would say) forever. And the batteries hold power like a sieve holds water.

Okay, I know some people who have ditched their landlines and gotten iPhones or other smartphones that let them do everything but clip their toenails with them, but am I ready for that? I have both cell phone and landline, the equivalent of wearing suspenders with a belt. But someone pointed out to me that if you only have a cell phone, when the power to the cell tower goes out, you have no phone. HELP! No phone at all?

Right now isn’t the best time to think about going out on the town, or in the town, actually. I’m preparing to move a certain amount of my stuff from my 4-bedroom house to a 2-bedroom apartment nearby. Right-sizing my lifestyle. Problem is, I’ve inherited a lot of stuff (beautiful dishes, linens, etc.) from two generations before me, that I never use. Like my mother before me, I have kept them in storage in the basement because they’re “too nice to use.” Now, there’s a silly idea. As long as I keep them, I’m chained to this stuff, too.

I’ve got some lovely pieces of Royal Ruby glassware on Craigslist, and today I’m listing my mother’s milk glass. All of that stuff is beautiful, but I have to think of the 3′ X 4″ storage cage at my new apartment, and exactly how much will go into it. Not much, that’s how much. And my son in Shanghai doesn’t give a chopstick for any of it. Not to mention, it would cost more than the national debt to send it to him.

In an attempt to downsize, I took five U-matic cassettes containing all of the TV commercials I’ve ever written and produced to a fellow nearby who is transferring them to DVD, so I won’t have to lug these obsolete plastic boxes of tape around forever. I also gave a 16mm film my dad had made back in the 50s for Purina to a friend in communication studies, and someday, he says he’ll transfer that to DVD. So I’m at least shrinking my media load.

Remember George Carlin’s terrific riff on “stuff?” It’s all true. And moving stuff is very trying. Moving while trying to get some work done is doubly trying. Oh, AND trying to organize a big garage sale (though you get more for your stuff at an “estate sale,” I’ve heard). Never have I done a garage sale, and this will be a pretty big one. Anybody have folding tables I could borrow?

Anyhow, when I am finally ensconced in the new apartment, I dearly hope I will not feel chained to my desk and stuff. As I recall from living in an apartment before, I tended to go out more. Say, tree leaves are still green, aren’t they?

Today, I outlined and wrote a sales presentation for a company I’d never heard of until a few days ago. A PR friend of mine had called and asked for my help on the writing end of a big branding/positioning project with a number of closely-spaced deadlines for items progressing to a complete revamp.

Hey, doing anything is easier when you don’t have time to do it. You doubt it?

Without thinking time, you don’t have ruminating time. You go with your first instinct and make it work. It’s kind of exhilarating. Kind of devil-may-care, even!Of course, background info helps. And on this project, it was coming through in small drips as the writing progressed. It’s still coming in, even as I’ve just finished the presentation script. Do I go back now and change things? Heck, there isn’t time! My PR friend has to present the danged thing in about an hour!

Thank goodness for tight deadlines, I say. Now for a little nap.

The current Miracle Whip TV campaign features Jersey-style hate for the mayonnaisey, yet sweet, product.

It appears that Miracle Whip is playing on the generally accepted fact that there are “Mayo people” and there are “Miracle Whip” people, and never the twain shall meet. Each thinks the other’s fave sandwich spread is yucky. It probably has to do with which one your mom used to make tuna salad.

But this TV spot features Pauly D, who hates Miracle Whip and anyone who likes it. Huh? Does that hatred inspire brand loyalty among MW lovers? Make them feel defensive, so they clutch MW to their collective bosom to shield it from Hellmann’s bullies?

The commercial encourages mayo lovers to taste MW to see if they really do hate it. The last time I tasted it was when I was about ten years old. I still remember the shock, disappointment and anger I felt when I took that first bite of my friend’s mom’s tuna salad sandwich. It was a terrible situation: I was famished, and I love tuna salad, but this tuna salad had been RUINED by the sweet, sticky, overpowering flavor of Miracle Whip. I was a Hellmann’s kid and had never tasted this other stuff before. I reacted like a baby tasting creamed spinach for the first time. Except I didn’t spit it out, because my mother taught me to be polite. The fact that the MW brand has remained popular to this day isn’t so much a miracle as a mystery to me.

In like fashion, Brits love a certain bread spread called Vegemite. It’s concentrated yeast extract in a jar. Mmm! To the Vegemite virgin, it tastes like something that ought to be used to lubricate machinery and have a label warning of dire consequences if you ingest it. But the Brits gobble it by the gallon (or the litre) every year. Apparently, they even use it under their eyes when they play rugby. And down their… well, never mind.

And on this side of the pond, how about White Castle burgers, better known as “sliders?” Briefly, there was a White Castle nearby. White Castle was exotic and new to me. When it opened, I rushed over and ordered a bag of sliders. With the first savor of burger number one, what impressed me most was how little meat and how much cheese and grease was packed between those eensy buns. I imagined the goo oozing its way through my arteries, toward my aorta. I threw the rest of the sliders and the oil-soaked bag away. Amazingly, these tiny death-bombs are so popular that for fans who aren’t near a White Castle, there are sliders in the grocery store freezer case. Go figger.

But back to the Miracle Whip versus Hellmann’s or Kraft controversy. The MW commercial casts aspersions on people who like Miracle Whip, yet it’s a commercial FOR Miracle Whip. This is a radical twist on the traditional approach, which is to show happy people smiling as they tuck into whatever foodstuff is being promoted. In that sense, the commercial is refreshing. There isn’t a single “bite and smile” shot in it. But will it sell Miracle Whip? I imagine it’s aimed at younger audience members (What are they now, Gen Y or Gen Z?) who are skeptical of anything pushed at them via TV in the traditional way. This message is ironic, edgy and unexpected. So who knows, that may be the recipe for Miracle Whip success.

But as I said, I think preferences are based on what you’re raised with. I say if you’re a MW person, you’re going to use it as always. If you’re a mayo person, you’re not. What do you think?

Someone recently stuck this flyer in my door. I was about to throw it away, when I became riveted by the copy. Not because of the content, but because spelling errors dotted its landscape like landmines. See how many you can spot.

I imagine English is not the first language of the author of this flyer. I hope s/he finds someone to look over future advertising pieces. Poor spelling gives the impression you don’t care about detail, at the very least. Or that you are dumb, at the very worst.

Need a good proofreader to make you and your business look its best? Give me a call. 913-236-7595.

Is it rude to ask a client to sign a contract and pay you some money before you do any work for him or her?
Hmm. Some freelancers seem to think so. They rush headlong into client relationships without even the promise of a kiss, then sometimes end up being jilted and cheated of what we all work for: money.

To those timid freelance graphic designers or writers, I ask, is it rude for Time Warner Cable to ask you to sign a contract? Or a remodeling contractor to have you sign off on an estimate before he gets to work? Of course not! That’s bidness, y’all.

If you’re a freelancer who is scared stupid to ask a client to sign on the line with you for fear you’ll lose him or her, I have three words of advice: Get Over It. Someone who won’t agree to sign onto normal terms of payment is someone who doesn’t see paying you as an absolute necessity. You don’t want a shaky or shady client anyhow, do you?

We freelancers constantly have to remind ourselves that we are a business. And any business requires a contract that cements a legal bond between them and their clients. It should help both parties feel safe, because you’ve agreed on the rules in writing. And freelancers should feel particularly safe, because in most jurisdictions, a written contract is considered binding, even if it isn’t too fancy.

In 10 years of freelancing, I never had a contract. Or let’s say, I never had one I could get clients to sign. I think there are two reasons why.

1. I didn’t project confidence in asking them to sign it.
I felt embarrassed to ask for them to agree to pay me money, a common freelancer disorder. The vaccine against it is a hard look at your income and outgo every month. If the first is smaller than the second, then screw your courage to the sticking point and ask for the signature and some upfront money. Because your time and effort are worthy of recompense.

2. They were not financially stable, so they weren’t sure they could honor it.
They were the wrong clients. You have to kiss some froggy, financially strapped clients before you find the princes and princesses… but heck, you don’t have to go steady with them. Why waste time you could be spending on clients who will sign a contract with you?

Now I have an Engagement Agreement, a one-page document that sets out my terms. It deals with how I will bill the client, how much per hour, what constitutes billable activity, what happens if they don’t pay within 30 days (a 1.5% daily add-on or being strapped down and forced to listen to indie hip-hop 24/7 until they pay–just kidding!), and so on. My last two new clients have signed it and paid me the deposit I requested, too. Will wonders never cease.

If you decide to work a tightrope without a net, okay and good luck. It worked for me nearly all the time (except for the solid year I dunned a client for a measly $400). But there will be times when you’ll wish you’d had one.

And if you’re a client who’s on the up-and-up, you absolutely should expect to sign a contract with your freelancer. It prevents misunderstandings that can ruin a nice relationship.

To contract or not to contract? I say, “Contract.”

A new idea is often represented as an incandescent light bulb glowing over someone’s head. Now that the old Edison bulbs are banned in favor of the CFL ones, we’ll have to think of something new. ‘Cause those CFLs look weird, and they’re slow to reach full brightness, while new ideas usually come flashing into your brain fully formed.

Or so you think.

• Ideas begin in your subconscious mind.
It’s that mysterious part of your brain where memories, impressions, images, smells, and bad old jokes are stored. You see, hear, smell, feel or read something, and it kicks off a fast conveyor belt carrying associations (Think of Lucy and Ethel working in the chocolate factory). When your subconscious sees the germ of a good idea, the conveyor belt jerks to a stop. What then?

• Your conscious mind plucks the “proto-thought” off the conveyor belt and holds it up to inspect it.
At this point, what you have is an amoeba-like blob: an association and a thought kind of oozing together. If it seems as if it might jell into something useful, the mind starts integrating it (or “mooshing it around,” as we creative professionals say) with other thoughts to create an idea that has form and substance. A creative idea, a business idea, whatever it might be. Perhaps “THE IDEA,” perhaps not. If not, it’s back to the conveyor belt.

• Coming up with “THE IDEA” takes a little time.
People (left-brained people, usually the account people) must think all you have to do is drop in a quarter, the machine goes whirr-whirr-zing, and at 12:59 p.m., “THE IDEA” chunks out of the chute. Not so.

• The “monkeying around” time is essential.
It takes place while you’re sleeping, showering, walking, watching TV, reading a book or newspaper, playing games, doing something unrelated to “working on” THE IDEA. When it doesn’t come is when you’re sitting rigid at the computer keyboard feverishly thinking, “OMIGOD, what am I going to do? Only 35 minutes to go! Come on, IDEA!”

• Now, deadlines for ideas are a good thing.
They focus your mind. They’re helpful, as long as they’re not so close you can feel their hot, humid breath on your neck. Nothing closes down the creative brain like time pressure. On the other hand, sometimes your very first idea is “THE IDEA.” Not often, though.

• So where do ideas come from?
Out of your dank, dark subconscious mind, through your collected associations, up into the conscious mind, out into the daylight, then into the monkeying around process. Then, you devoutly help, they will transmogrify into just “THE IDEA” you need.

• So don’t short-cut the creative process.
Good ideas are like shy little bunnies hiding in the shrubberies of your mind. If you rush to grab them, they’ll high-tail it into the woods. But if you sit down quietly some distance from them, eventually they’ll come out and reward you with a wet sniff with their cute little bunny noses. That’s my take, anyway.

Need good ideas? Come and find me. I’ll be sitting near the shrubberies.