The Secret to Finding Writing Gigs That Actually Pay the Bills

In June 2021, I quit my job as an editor at a big-name magazine to become a full-time novelist and freelance writer. To many people in my life, it seemed like a spur-of-the-moment decision, encouraged by pandemic burnout and the Great Resignation (I was one of nearly four million people in the US who quit their jobs that month). But in reality, I spent roughly six months preparing to make that leap. I saved as much money as I could, worked early mornings and weekends so I could make enough progress to sell my next novel before leaving, and did the most helpful thing of all: talked to other people who had made similar moves.

I hit up basically every editor-turned-novelist/freelancer I knew and asked for pieces of advice. Which outlets are assigning a lot of stories these days? Who’s your favorite editor to work with? Are there secret listservs I need to be on? How do you turn down work when you’re on deadline? How do I even get work? I had nearly a dozen conversations, and all of them let me in on the dirty little secret about being a “full-time writer”: Even your faves produce garbage copy for money sometimes.

The features writer whose longform stories you autoshare? Yeah, they may also write tourism board pamphlets. The best-selling novelist? They could spend free time churning out ad copy for boring, unrecognizable insurance companies. The freelance reporter who’s always tweeting? They might pad their wallet with cash made from writing advertorials for direct-to-consumer brands they’d excuse themselves from covering in journalism.

These are the kinds of assignments that don’t carry bylines or clout. But ultimately, they pay the bills, often netting writers twice or three times what they might make doing the same amount of work for a newspaper, magazine, or digital outlet. As I spoke to more and more freelancers, I found that it’s so rare to rely on the high-profile, glamorous, forward-facing kind of writing as your only source of income.

Most writers have to seek out these other kinds of gigs because they not only pay more, but they also usually pay fast. (The check for my first advertorial assignment landed in my mailbox within three weeks—many news outlets take up to ninety days to remit payment.) But here’s the big reason freelancers told me they love this work: It’s usually quite prescriptive, with very specific and detailed instructions, which frees up your brain to spend more time on other, bigger creative endeavors, like a budding novel or an essay about, say, how you make money as a writer.

Even your faves produce garbage copy for money sometimes.

Upon learning this trick of the trade, I rolled my eyes at the idea, secretly hoping I was above seeking out this kind of work. But after I gave notice, and as my final regular paycheck got closer and closer, I knew all those writers were right. I needed some fast, easy money that came when it said it would, had zero prestige, and helped cover my basic expenses so I could focus on meeting deadlines for my next young adult novel, The Counselors.

So I set about finding this kind of work with the determination of a cub reporter trying to get their first scoop. I reached out to almost every single person I knew who moved from magazines into mysterious industries like “branding,” “marketing,” and “copywriting” and asked if they ever worked with freelancers or could provide guidance. Most were helpful and eager to spread the wealth, directing me to folks at fashion labels, health tech companies, or lifestyle brands who may need quick snappy copy or a ghostwritten blog post.

I also hit up all those freelance friends again, letting them know I was available for “literally anything,” the kind of desperation that may not help me land a cover story at a beloved magazine but will definitely set me up for a bunch of consistent gigs writing “on-brand copy” for a company I have no plans of ever writing about in a journalistic sense.

Some writers—journalists, especially—choose not to work on these projects to avoid conflicts of interest (like if you’re a tech journalist but also write ad copy for Apple, that’s a no-no). But for me, these kinds of assignments serve as an important piece in the Tetris board of “trying to make this whole freelance thing work.” If I relied solely on freelance journalism, an industry in which I spent ten years building a career, to sustain me financially, I would be making much less than I am now. And if I spent my time only working on novels and other long-term creative projects, I would be going months without getting a paycheck, since authors earn pieces of their advance in chunks and royalties come only twice a year.

Of course there are exceptions to the whole “everyone writes garbage copy” theory—the debut novelist with a seven-figure advance, the magazine writers who command four dollars a word, tenacious reporters who earn grants from nonprofits, folks who make the financially smart choice not to live in the most expensive city in the US, as I do. But for many of us, taking up gigs as tutors, editorial strategists, project managers, or yoga teachers to make ends meet is all part of the job. Being a “real writer” isn’t about holing up with your typewriter at a cabin in the woods, beholden only to the creative process of crafting the next Great American Novel. It’s about making sure you can sustain a life that allows you to write—and the gift of garbage copy helps me do that.

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