Maggie Slepian

In summer of 2020, the financial fallout from Covid caused me to lose my full-time editor job. I’d had the job since 2016, and I’d loved it. Working remotely gave me the freedom to play outside and the ultimate flexibility. I had creative freedom and hourly freedom, plus the monthly salary made it easy to budget. It was my first taste of working remotely full-time, and I knew I’d never go back to an 8-5 grind. 

I’d done some freelancing before, so after I lost my job, I decided to see if I could survive as a full-time outdoor industry writer. I gathered work quickly and accepted every assignment and client that came my way. I knew I was taking on a lot, but I was always worried about a future of scarcity and felt pressure to say yes to every assignment.

I wrote for content marketing firms, universities, big-box stores, national outlets, tiny organizations, print magazines, cottage-industry companies, local newspapers, and major media brands. By the time I came up for air, I’d written for Huffington Post, New York Magazine, Popular Mechanics, Runner’s World, Men’s Health, REI, Marmot, Gregory, Osprey, KOA, Backpacker, Outside, Backpacking Light, MSU, and a dozen other smaller clients. 

My output was absolutely insane. I was filing an average of nine articles a week, plus working on longer-lead pieces throughout the week. I wrote about everything from basic gear advice to reported features with multiple primary sources and numerous rounds of in-depth editing. I was recording interviews while working on other assignments, and sometimes I’d have four pieces due in one day. I am aware that everyone sees workloads differently, and maybe this is nothing to some of you out there, but I was working around 10 hours a day, seven days a week, and I didn’t go anywhere without my laptop. 

When I tallied my finances after six months of this workload, I was floored. My income was a fraction of what I’d made in years past, and I was working twice as many hours. In taking as many clients as I did, I was accepting assignments that paid $50-100 for 1,000 words, over and over again. This is not a knock against taking those kinds of assignments, but I live in an expensive mountain town and pay a mortgage, so I needed a lot of $100 articles to pay the bills each month.

I did write higher-paid pieces, but when I did the math on the hours that went into a $1,000 feature—including a half-dozen interviews and transcriptions, multiple editor calls, and several rounds of edits—the money became a wash. I could write the $100 articles fast enough that it wound up being around the same hourly rate. 

Then, some of my favorite pieces of writing went behind paywalls, and even the non-monetary reward for writing (people reading it!) felt out of reach. I couldn’t link to my work unless people subscribed to the publication, and I questioned everything from my output to the morality of writing Amazon-laced listicles.  

I was full-time freelance for about a year, and there were many parts that I loved. I was grateful to work on my own time in an industry I loved. I was proud of my bylines and being able to write every day was a blast. But even with all the good aspects, the workload combined with often low pay and the frustrations of hunting down overdue invoices, begging to get paid, tracking missing pay, and continually seeking out work was too much, and I felt totally burned out. 

Then I hit the final straw. I got a side gig working on a film set for a month, and I kept my full client load. It was an absolute nightmare, and I swore I’d never do it again. When I got another film gig a few months later, I used it as an excuse to drop some clients. By the time I wrapped on the second film, I’d pretty much cleaned house.

The clients I kept were my favorites, either because of the subject or the editors. I kept my Backpacker column, my essays here at CS Coffee, and a few gear-oriented assignments with Runner’s World and Popular Mechanics. I accepted an upcoming print assignment with Women’s Health because I respect the editor and topic. Additionally, my reduced workload helped me remember why I loved to write. 

If I do it again, I’ll do it differently. Instead of committing to every opportunity, I’ll be pickier about the ones I accept. This leaves room for seeking out better opportunities, even if a lower workload still might make me panic. 

For now, the film contracts pay well enough that I don’t have to fill up my free time between movies with a ton of work. I have time to write creatively and draw, and I don’t feel stressed or guilty when I do things away from my laptop. I picked up coffee shop shifts between movies, and I no longer feel the need to prove myself as a full-time writer.

I’m very grateful that I was able to hack it in the outdoor space, and I don’t take it for granted. I learned valuable lessons, and next time, I’ll come into it with a better understanding of what it means to have a good work-life balance and how to avoid the classic flaming burnout. 

There is no one-size-fits-all advice. Each freelancer can handle varying workloads. Our bills and cost of living vary. If I were to dispense any advice at all, it would be to accept any assignment and client you think will help build your portfolio, but don’t sell yourself short. Taking on massive amounts of work is a recipe for burnout and terrible work-life balance…. Something challenging enough to achieve when you work from home. Go with your gut and don’t be afraid to drop clients who don’t meet your criteria. 

After a certain point, each project and client should fit at least one of the following: 

-Great pay

-Inspiring work

-Human connection 

There you have it! Lessons learned and plenty to think about in the future.