The secret world of beer

Florida’s beer drinkers have a reason to learn their local politics this legislative session: Plantation Democrat Rep. Katie Edwards is pushing a bill that she says would help the state’s microbreweries up their business.
Continue reading “The secret world of beer”


Meeting the readers

Last Friday, my paper’s tabloid ran my cover story about South Florida Beer Week. Tonight, I was shooting a photo gallery of one of the Beer Week events — a five-stop bar crawl.

I approached a two men to take their picture, and it turns out one of them had cut out my story, annotated it and brought it with him in his pocket. Continue reading “Meeting the readers”

Because you’re worth it (the money)

Today’s Internet foray led me to the young-but-popular Tumblr blog Who Pays Writers? (more on that later), which led me to Ann Friedman’s CJR post on how much to charge for freelance work.

Friedman lays out advice points such as cultivating a personal brand and maintaining relationships with editors. But the post hints at a notion that not many veterans or mentors have addressed to me. As a freelancer in a Web-based writing economy, no less, you have to push for your dime. Continue reading “Because you’re worth it (the money)”

On journalism becoming glamourous

It still seems strange to me that people work, unpaid, without a guaranteed job at the end. And I haven’t reconciled myself with the central irony here: that journalism, ostensibly a populist endeavour, is becoming a rarefied practice best suited, both financially and psychologically, to the well-off.

Alexandra Kimball’s tale of struggling to make it as a journalist — but more specifically, a writer — alludes to relatable hurdles such as making rent and being unable to work free internships, which lowered my chances of landing a job after the days of restaurant work in college.

However, her Random House feature talks about journalism as a “glamour” industry.

I don’t think my two-hour drive to an assignment, after which I end up eating alone in a dive bar, wishing I could nap for just five minutes before driving home to my fourth-floor apartment in a building with the broken elevator, where cat litter overpowers all other smells, is very glamorous.