Money. Money. Not for fun. For money.
Please do not ask me to do things for no money. Not writing. Not speaking. Not media interviews, either. I know you mass electronic media outlets don’t pay people but whatevs. Unless you have money for me, I will not provide free content to your television or radio program. I don’t really like doing interviews. Unless I have a book to flog, I would much rather stay home. I would rather garden than go to your television or radio studio where your host will probably be rude to me.
Pay me money.
Bitches, please. I am in my forties. I am not grateful for the exposure. I am grateful for being left the fuck alone.
But do not ask me to work for no money or shit money.
Especially please do not ask me to do things for no money or shit momey AND COVER MY OWN TRAVEL EXPENSES. And do not suppose a plane ticket to Sydney is sufficient payment, either. I have been on a fucking plane before. Going to Sydney is not exciting for me but a pain in my arse. I would much rather stay home and garden than go to the rotten airport. AND FLY TO A GIG YOU EXPECT ME TO DO FOR NO MONEY.
And I don’t drive because I can’t fucking see so there had better be a cab.
Unless your organisation is super-worthy-IMO and is advocating for, say, Aboriginal land rights, homelessness, asylum seekers resources or smashing the state DO NOT ASK ME TO WORK FOR NO MONEY DO NOT ASK ME TO WORK FOR NO MONEY. The answer will probably be no and then “fuck you. Why don’t you value my labour?”. I am a freelancer FFS. And yes, how nice that a Member of Parliament, lobbyist or full-time employed eminent charity worker agreed to your terms of NO MONEY. Of course they did. It is a job they are PAID TO DO. I AM A FREELANCER. IF I DO NOT WORK FOR A DAY I DO NOT GET PAID FOR A DAY. MY INDUSTRY IS IN CRISIS FOR THE SAKE OF FUCK. PAY ME OR FUCK OFF.
Also. Just because you are a “women’s organisation” I will not provide a free keynote address. Better be some pretty special bitches.
Do. Not. Ask. Me. To. Work. For. No. Payment.
Apart from being rude to dicks who ask me to do things for no money or too little money, I am writing about dates. Read this on the Helen One Hundred project.
And do apply for a date if you’d like. Dating has now finished. I got up to 25 before I found one I wanted to keep.
Look. I hate these About pages. Google me. I have a Wikipedia page that I swear I didn’t make myself. Most of it is accurate. I think. Last time I looked. At present, I write for some independent organisations I really like. I wrote books. I am writing books again. One is the date thing. One is with Bernard Keane from Crikey. A Short History of Stupid out through Allen & Unwin.
Email me at helen at badhostess dot com