I do believe I've been duped

There are too many people out there looking for jobs right now, and you know what that means...

Lots of opportunities for scammers.

I just finished up a bit ghost writing project for a freelance writing company that promised to pay me a set rate on a specific day. I turned in the project. Got praise for my good work. And waited. And waited. And...you get the point.

I didn't get paid.

For the record, I got this position through a friend. His wife is the woman I wrote the document for. I thought, "Hey, I know this guy. This should be the real deal." Maybe I was wrong.

I sent a kind email asking if I had been mistaken on the payday and guess what? I waited some more. I finally got a response saying that she was waiting for the client to review the document and send it back for me to look over one last time, but that it could take a week before she even gets it back.

And that's when I realized I had just wasted three weeks of my life that I could have spent searching for a better job that will actually pay me. I doubt I will see a paycheck for my efforts. I will keep you posted.

Anybody have advice for job seekers trying to avoid these kinds of scams? Post your comments.

The Ghost in the Machine: The Ethics of Writing for Another Author

Among my job prospects this past month is a position ghost writing a book. I'm great with research and writing, but this just seems like cheating to me. Here's why:

The research is hasty and I'm not allowed to quote sources. Knowing little about the topic means I would normally rely on sources to back me up. I'm doing the very best I can to write everything I learn, being very thorough and not copying the work already done by others, but I'm not an expert on the topic and I question whether I would buy a book researched and written in two weeks by a person who has just learned the very basics.

And here's the kicker:

The client has accepted every draft of the project without any major revisions!

Now, I'm wondering who this guy is trying to cheat. And that's what lead me to questioning this whole idea of ghost writing.

What are your thoughts? Is ghost writing unethical? And who should be accountable, the client or the writers?

I've Graduated College, Now What?

It's been nearly a month since graduation and I am anxious to dive into work. I knew that it would take some time to find a job, but I'm an impatient person. I want to be working now. So what should I do in the meantime, aside from job hunting?

Blog of course!

Okay, so that probably won't get me far, but I have dedided to work on my professional portfolio. I probably should have done that long before graduation, but who has the time when in the middle of final exams and deadlines for major projects?

Nevertheless, here I am relearning to build a website from scratch and trying to incorporate my writing samples, in the hopes of obtaining a job. If nothing else, I hope to find some sort of freelance writing work. Dreamweaver is a chore.

For the writers out there, what are the best and worst resources you've found for building your online portfolios?

I will be posting a link to the portfolio soon. Stay tuned.

Love Your Work

I've always had a passion for photography.

When my oldest daughter was born, I decided it was a career path I wanted to pursue. For a short while I took some mail order classes for photography. I earned my certificate and got minimal experience with my cheap camera. I'm not sure how seriously anyone would take the mail order school thing. I was skeptical, but I did learn a lot about the importance of lighting and how to frame a subject. I remember little of what I learned about F-stops and apertures. I never really took the initiative to really get creative with my camera, because it was too easy to rely on the automatic settings.

I got a job working in a studio for a couple of years. You've probably seen them. They're in most malls across the country. Bright colors in the studio and there's usually a room right in the front window of the store so mall walkers can watch the photographer as she works diligently to make a baby smile, sometimes with amusing futility.

I really enjoyed the job, but there was very little room for creativity. We were given a 15-20 minute time limit to get those smiles, and there were specific pictures we were supposed to shoot. It was a job that could smother an artist.

On my own time, I took wedding and senior pictures for friends and family. I've always taken my children's pictures that I hand out to family members every year. I don't care for the ones they have done at school. They are the same pictures every other child gets and the photographer doesn't always know how to get the best smile out of my children, because like my job at the studio, this photographer is given
a time limit with no room for creativity. Not to mention, she has hundreds of other kids lining
up to get those shots. You know how it goes,
"sit on the stool, look at the birdie, say 'cheese'
*flash* Next."

I took my oldest daughter with me yesterday to help with a photo shoot that my cousin was doing. This cousin has become an incredible photographer, making me quite jealous that I never pursued my own business ventures in the field. It was an awesome and humbling experience. I know I have lots to learn about how to use my camera effectively to get those amazing shots...even if I never pursue it as a career. I just hope that it planted some inspiration in my daughter. Whether it's in photography or writing, or whatever else she might want to do, I want her to find something she loves and be passionate about her work.

Happiness

Here I am at the end of my college career (at least for now). I have three weeks to go. There are looming deadlines for some really big assignments, professors who have yet to clue me in to my grades for the semester, the graduation ceremony to plan for, and on top of all that there's still the rest of my life to keep up with. I've got kids with school programs to attend, archery competitions, birthday parties, job shadowing, and of course there's Michael and our weekly dance lessons, or just plain old date nights on the couch with a movie and some pizza when we're both too exhausted to do anything else. Life is hectic right now. Is it any wonder my migraines have increased over the past couple of months?

But, here's the thing. Even with all of that stress, I have nothing more than the daily struggles to complain about. I can claim ownership to those daily struggles. Those struggles are mine because I make time for the things I love. It's a challenge sometimes, but it's so worth it, because they make me happy.

For The Love of Shoes

Nike Women's Free Run+ 2 EXT Running Shoes (Google Affiliate Ad)

I came home from class one day a few weeks ago to find that Rachel, my seven year old, had arranged my shoes in neat little rows. This was a surprise to me considering I had bought her a shoe carousel a few months ago to organize her multitude of shoes and yet hers are all in a pile at the bottom of her closet. I guess that shouldn't be a shock when I tell you that I generally kick my shoes off into a spot next to my dresser, just below the one window I have in my apartment bedroom. Like mother, like daughter. I rarely put my shoes neatly away in my own closet, but when I do it only takes a few days before I have a huge pile of them in that same spot on my bedroom floor. I don't even remember wearing most of them, yet there they are.

Rachel has a love of shoes that started at an unusually young age. When she was just two years old, I remember walking out of a store holding her on my hip when we passed another mom with her little girl. The girl was about the same age as my Rachel. I remember one thing about her other than her age: her boots. Red cowgirl boots, to be exact. I look back on this moment and I see it in black and white, sort of like the early part of The Wizard of Oz, except the ruby slippers are boots and in this black and white part of the film, the boots are bright red.

As we passed the woman with her daughter, Rachel's eyes got big and she watched them walk all the way into the store then looked at me and said, "I love her boots" with such awe in her voice that I knew from that moment on I would have a little fashionista on my hands.

My own love of shoes goes hand-in-hand with the many hobbies I have. Over the past couple of years, I have been taking dance lessons with my boyfriend. Two-step, West Coast Swing, Double Two-step, and now Waltz. Our dance instructor is hoping to get us into competitions soon, but with our busy schedules, we are slow at putting together our routines. My dance shoes are far from glamorous, but they are quite likely my favorite pair of shoes because they allow me to do something I love. They are plain black with a low heal and the leather is worn and faded, but to me they are my most valuable pair of shoes.

There are of course my every day shoes, shoes for casual wear, formal wear, flip flops, boots (for when I go horse-back riding) boots (just-because) and my good ol' Chuck Taylors. Then there are my running shoes, my blue and white Nike+ tennis shoes with the chip that syncs to my iPhone so I can track my progress. I'm a sporadic runner, but I'm hoping to sign up for a 5k this summer, so I'm trying to take it more seriously. Today, I logged 2.5 miles. (Okay, I walked some of it, but it's a start.)

Add to all those shoes, my speed skates for our once a week trips to the rink and I'd say I have a pretty grand inventory of foot apparel that really isn't all that fashionable, but by golly, I have a lot of fun because of my feet. I think they deserve a nice pedicure for all the hard work.

Suspect

          “You are the most tragic person I have ever met.”

          I laughed. My life had its ups and downs but I know others have bigger problems than me. It’s just been a bad week.

          “It could always get worse,” I said.

          “True. But you seem to have this rain cloud following you around.”

          Now that is a statement that I have to agree with. I’m not sure what it is that makes me so prone to trials in life but I hardly think my life is a tragedy. I have more blessings than troubles. I have three beautiful girls who keep me going everyday even when I feel like my world is falling apart. I have the good fortune of living in a place free of suffering and persecution. I have a family who loves me and supports me even when I fail. Nevertheless, I have been told that my life is way too exciting.

          In the previous week, I had sprained my ankle, cut my finger on a knife at work, dropped my phone in the toilet (hey, it happens), forgot my umbrella on the rainiest day that month, locked myself out of my apartment, and became for a short time the prime suspect in a break-in at McDonald’s (no, it wasn’t me, I swear). While frustrating, all of this didn’t amount to tragedy. Really, what else could I do but laugh at it all?

† † †

I’m not sure how, but becoming suspect in the eyes of the law has become an unfortunate habit of mine. I had just dropped my car off at the mechanic’s shop to have the gauge cluster fixed so that I wouldn’t get pulled over for speeding. It happened to me once before. But, on this particular afternoon police would ask me more than the standard “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

† † †

In high school, I had an old Chrysler LeBaron with a broken speedometer. It was a cute little car, used but perfectly reliable with the exception of a faulty digital display. I had run out of gas on several occasions because it failed to tell me when the tank was low.

One early morning, I was driving my boyfriend back to Fort Leonard Wood, where he had been for the previous eight weeks for basic training. He had a weekend of a leave time and when that was over, he had to return to base to start his job training. It was still dark outside and there were no other cars on the road for me to judge how fast I was going.

We were cruising along, when my boyfriend turned to me and said, “You need to pull over.”

          “What? Why?” And that was when I saw in the rearview mirror the flashing lights of the military police car.

          I was issued a ticket demanding I return to the base in a month to appear before a judge. I had been driving twenty miles over the posted speed limit. I was embarrassed. I am a good driver. I wasn’t trying to speed. It was the stupid car’s fault. But, the law doesn’t place the responsibility on the car. I had to pay the fine.

† † †

          Naturally, this was an experience I wanted to avoid repeating, so when my speedometer quit working in my Jeep, I took it to the shop right away. I had classes that day but my car wouldn’t be ready to pick up until later in the afternoon so I had my mom pick me up from campus. Before she took me home we stopped at Staples so she could pick up a few things.

          As we pulled into the parking lot, we heard a high pitched wailing coming from a nearby store. People were standing around the parking lot waiting to see something happen. We saw two police cars race down the road leading to the back side of the store and then a police officer bolting behind the building.

          My mom, with eyebrows raised, said, “Huh. I wonder what’s going on. Are you coming in?” She was apparently not nearly as interested as me.

          “No. I’ll wait here.” I didn’t see any immediate danger. It was just an alarm. There were a couple of police cars nearby but they weren’t swarming the place.

          In the movies, when there’s a big event happening, people gather near the action. It’s the same in real life. It’s just a natural human reaction to want to see something exciting so we can tell our friends, “I was there. I saw everything.” It makes us feel important because we can relay insider information to our friends, maybe even confirm or expand on the stories they get in the news. We feel empowered for being a part of the scene.

          I remember watching one of the recent Spiderman movies, when a crowd gathers around the reporters and news cameras, surrounding the police tape at the scene of action when Spiderman fights off several villains at once. “They’re too close. Don’t these people worry about getting hurt or killed?” I remember thinking. But that’s just the movies, because I apparently didn’t even consider that possibility when I heard blaring sirens and saw the police force in action. I was your standard gawker.

          My mom got out of the truck and headed inside. I had lied to her. I didn’t wait where I was. With a quick scan of my surroundings I spotted a group of people watching the events unfold. So I jumped out of the truck, slammed the door, and made my way to where they were.

          A short dark haired man with a beer gut who was doing all the talking glanced at me as I approached. “Do you know what happened?” I enquired; looking from him to the man he was talking to. They didn’t appear to know each other. They were strangers drawn together at the scene of a crime out of shear curiosity. Just like me.

          “There was an armed robbery,” said the first man. “I think they saw someone run behind the building there.” He pointed to the alley behind Staples.

          The alarm continued to blare. Whoop whoop whoop.

          We talked briefly but he didn’t seem to know any more than I did and I was feeling a bit foolish for thinking he would. I glanced around and the only police man I saw at this point was in a cruiser, driving slowly through the parking lot.

          I gave a quick nod to the beer-bellied man and jogged back to my mom’s truck to wait for her to finish shopping. As I ran through the parking lot, the officer in the police cruiser spotted me and immediately blocked my mom’s truck in with his car, lights flashing. I stopped just short of opening the truck door, thinking “Oh crap.”

          He stepped out of his car. “I need to see some ID.”

          “Yes sir.”

          “Is this your vehicle?”

          “No, it’s my mom’s. She’s inside.” I pointed to the Staples door.

          He waited for me to find my driver’s license. He held up his two way radio and gave a description of my mom’s truck, complete with license plate number, and then a description of me, “female, blonde hair, blue eyes. Suspect was seen running through the parking lot at Staples.” Oh God, what am I a suspect of now?

          He kept his attention on me. “Uh, ma’am, why were you running?”

          Embarrassed, I confessed to snooping about the supposed robbery, while his radio continued to relay conversations between the dispatcher and other officers. What I got from that information was the suspect had run out of a check cashing store nearby, a scan of his information revealed he had passed bad checks and a warrant was out for his arrest. He had a woman with him. It was not the rumored armed robbery I heard about from the beer-bellied man. I looked around and noticed four more police cars had blocked me in with my mom’s truck.

          The officer looked past me, into the cab of the truck, and then back at me. He was scrutinizing every detail.

          My mom walked out of the store, bag in hand, looking very confused. I laughed nervously, “Hi.”

          “Excuse me ma’am, I need to see your ID,” the officer said to my mom. She produced her driver’s license and he scanned it quickly, explaining his reason for questioning her.

          His radio buzzed. The dispatcher relayed that our IDs were clear and my mom’s truck did indeed belong to her, with no warrants out for either of us. He nodded and handed the ID back to her with a quick smile, and then spoke to the dispatcher. “Not the suspect.”

          With a quick look in my direction, he handed me my driver’s license, “Thank you. You can go now.” And suddenly they were all gone.

          I climbed in the truck, wide-eyed. My mom stared at me. What was all that about?

          “Oops.”

          It wasn’t the big, dramatic, super-hero saving the day event that we see in the movies. I still don’t even know much about what happened that day. I didn’t get caught in the cross-fire between the police and a bank robber on a shooting spree. I just got caught up in a story that only made the breaking news on the radio because the police were searching for a man with an empty checking account. Maybe they’re right. Maybe my life is too exciting, if you can call it that.

          But, hey I had a story to tell that involves a serious lesson learned.

          If you want to stay out of trouble, mind your own business.