Why The “Work-for-Free" Model is Bullshit

If you’re on Twitter, there’s a good chance you might have seen this tweet:

abolish unpaid internships!!!! low income students cannot afford to work for free and simultaneously pay their bills/ support themselves especially in high cost cities. it gives those who can afford it better networking / career opportunities and makes it hard for everyone else

— isa (@lushisaa) July 28, 2020

The replies are mixed at best, but when I saw it, the tweet resonated with a feeling I’ve held close to my chest for a long time now.

But you know, I think it’s time to talk about it.

Hi. My name is Shailyn Cotten, and I think the "work for free" model of breaking into the film and TV industry is bullshit. Welcome to my TED talk.

I've been weirdly blessed over the last couple years to get my TV pilot, After Oil, into a lot of fests. I've attended a lot of panels, and heard a lot of "successful" film and TV people chat about how they got their big break. They all have the same anecdote. And it's also the same thing every film school alum ever shared, when they were roped into giving a lecture for one of my disinterested college classes.

"I worked for free."

The consensus is that everyone does it. Gotta "pay your dues".

But working for free isn't "free". Someone is paying for it. And it's not the person who's employing you.

I don't doubt that everyone (for the most part) who's broken into this industry hasn't worked hard to get where they are. I don't doubt they put in 60 hour weeks or more, and are also insanely talented.

A lot of these people also carry around an unknown privilege, which invisibly buoys them throughout their career.

Money.

Everyone has a wildly different perspective on what it means to be "wealthy". To me at least, wealth means coming from a family that can afford to pay for or assist your cost of living independently. Or even dependently. Having parents who already live in the city of your business and are willing to provide for you while you work towards financial independence is a different form of privilege.

There is no such thing as working for free, because there is no such thing as living for free. And living in a city where there IS an industry - New York City or Los Angeles - isn't fucking cheap. There are some madly driven people in this industry who balance working enough hours to afford rent on their own while also juggling working freelance on productions. As commendable as this is, the bottom-line is that people who come from less shouldn’t be expected to sacrifice their well-being just to get work in their field.

Most productions, barring some student shorts and amateur films, expect that you drop almost everything to devote yourself wholly to their project for weeks or months at a time. The service job market in these film industry cities is flooded. It can be tough to find an employer who will pay you a living wage despite your disappearing for great chunks at a time.

It's hard enough these days to find a job that will pay you a living wage period. It's nearly impossible to work a full time and find the time to work a production on the side. That's two full time jobs for the price of one.

We deserve better.

We need to stop glorifying this shit. If you’ve done it, be fucking proud. But let’s not sit here and pretend that the systems that put these expectations into place benefit the people who need to have their stories told today. These systems were put into place to maintain the status quo of the elite and wealthy.

My stance on the matter is that the "work for free" model is classist at best, and misogynist and racist at worst. It is the first padlocked door that stands in the way of every minority breaking into this industry. It is the obstacle barring them from having their stories told.

So how do you dismantle this system? The “work for free” model is in many ways crucial to filmmaking. I would not have been able to produce After Oil without asking dozens of insanely overworked filmmakers - students and professionals alike - to work for nothing. I put all the money I had into that pilot, and if I ever want to produce another pilot - or any film - the sad matter of fact is, I may have to ask my friends to work for free again.

I want to believe that the payout is worth it. If we had not all sacrificed our time and money - because my friends did sacrifice money to make this with me, in the form of hours that could’ve been worked elsewhere - there would be one less pilot in the world with a Black bisexual woman in the lead, or one less pilot which deals with the complex struggles of poor rural communities embroiled with corrupt hydro-fracking operations.

But that doesn't mean we can't try to do better. So what does that look like?

If you have the money, spend the money. Make paying your cast and crew a priority. And yes. That means your PAs too.

Not every film student can afford to take a non-paying job, even within the "bubble" that is college. Budget for what it would take to make your production while paying your crew fairly. Explore crowdfunding and investors. It’s worth it. You should be making paying all crew a priority.

And if you're like me - deadass broke - but still want to be making films, do yourself and your crew a favor. Work with what you have, not with what you want. That means writing scripts that are five minutes long - ten max. That means writing for the locations you KNOW you have, not the ones you hope to get. That means working with the equipment you own or are certain you can borrow, even if it means taking a ding in quality. Working this way will a.) save yourself a whole load of grief, b.) make it easier to get people to crew for free, and c.) possibly enable you to PAY your crew. You'll probably wind up shooting more shit, and it will also probably end up being a much higher quality. Surprisingly, people are much more on their game when they are both fed well and paid fairly.

You want to talk about #MeToo? You want to talk about hiring women, LGBTQ+, and POC for your sets and writer's rooms?

Well, I'm sorry, but it doesn't trickle down. We need to rebuild the way this industry does things from the ground up. And that starts with you paying the people who work for you.

So, don’t get me wrong. Work for free to get your foot in the door. Work on productions for short films, preferably the sort of shoots that take place over a weekend or so. Work on sets that will compensate you for travel, and feed you well. Work for your friends. Work for projects you are deeply passionate about.

And then, when one day you have the money, give the money. Because we're worth more than nothing.

What do you think about unpaid internships and the work-for-free model in film and other industries? What do you think is the solution to moving to something more sustainable for diversity? Let me know in the comments below.

be safe and well.

-shai

How I Quit My Salaried Job to Work Part-time and Became 100% Happier

Content warning: this post contains mention of suicide and self-harm

I was sitting on a couch I didn’t own, in an apartment I was subletting in Hell’s Kitchen, crying over the phone with my mom. I couldn’t afford to stay there any longer, and I knew it. My savings were spent. The sublet was up, and in that time, I hadn’t found enough well-paying jobs to afford to rent the apartment next month… or any apartment in New York City.

I wasn’t crying because the sublet was up.

I was crying because I had told myself that if I was forced to move back in with my parents after college, I would kill myself.

I know this seems harsh. I was not in a good place my last year of college. In a way, I credit writing and producing my TV pilot (and thesis film) After Oil with saving my life. At first, the stress I was under during production was so intense that it only seemed to worsen my suicidal ideation. But at a certain point, I realized I had so many people counting on me that I couldn’t stand the thought of disappointing them, even in death. So I pushed myself a little further. And then a little more.

After the production ended, the world didn’t fall apart around my shoulders the way I had convinced myself it would. Don’t get me wrong. In many ways, the production went to shit. A lot of mistakes were made by me which impacted the experience of my crew and cast. But still, the world didn’t end. More than that, I realized after processing some of the trauma of the production, that I was actually incredibly proud of what we had done. Even stranger, my cast and crew seemed proud of what we had accomplished too. That was a feeling I hadn’t felt towards something I had worked on in a very long time.

I wish I could say that levity buoyed me through the rest of the year. Instead, post-production began, and my classes became more focused on “what comes next”.

If I learned one thing at film school that year, it was this: if I wasn’t living in New York or L.A., I wasn’t going to have a career in film.

My life felt like a ticking time-bomb. I had until graduation to get the pieces into place. If I didn’t succeed in securing a job (or several) in NYC so I could continue working in film, I would become what I feared most.

A wash-up.

In my mind, if I wasn’t working some sort of film job in New York after I graduated, all of that tuition, all of that time my professors and other students had invested in me, was a total waste.

I applied for nannying and production assistant gigs. I scoured Indeed, Mandy.com, and craigslist for film gigs that I thought I was even remotely qualified for. They were few and far between. I’m sure I could have made it work. Made smarter decisions. Spent more time job searching.

But that doesn’t really matter now. By the end of that summer, I was forced to move back in with my parents.

Devastated, I fashioned myself a new preserver to keep my hopes afloat. I just needed to get back to New York City. I would find any film-related job Upstate and build up my resume. I would take free gigs in the city as a production assistant or a script supervisor to try and stay relevant. Keep growing my network of film peeps. I would continue to market After Oil and bring it around to festivals, hoping that the pilot would either go viral or that my co-producer and I would meet an interested executive who could take us to the next step.

Even living at home and working as a videographer, I still wasn’t making enough money. The cost of commuting to Albany and all over the Capital District region for work was incredibly draining. Trips to the city to meet with directors or work on sets were hideously expensive.

Then the final blow came. The year was drawing closed. After Oil hadn’t been selected for any more film festivals, and it would not qualify for more next year. It would no longer be a “new work” and therefore would not pass most festival admission qualifications.

New York City never looked so far away.

I was falling back into habits of self-harm, and the thought of suicide was never too distant.

It was around this time that I started streaming on Twitch. In my own time I often watched Overwatch streamers, and I loved just how interactive streaming was. I had made Let’s Plays before, so it seemed like a fun thing to try. I started to make some friends, and before too long, I had built a small community around my streams. Twitch was the only light in my life. I lived for my streams and the friends I had made there, quite literally. My whole world revolved around it.

At this same time, I had started dating again. That was when I met my partner, Dylan, which has utterly changed my life. It was truly like finding the other half of me, even if I didn’t yet know who “me” was. On top of that, I got accepted to a position as a personal assistant at a performing arts center. And it was salaried.

It really felt like I had successfully manifested what I needed most into my life. True unconditional love. A stable job. A chance to work hard, make connections, and pave my way back to New York City.

If you’ve ever been a personal assistant, or watched any media about being a personal assistant, you probably know about how well that went. I’ll spare details. After a little less than a year, I couldn’t take it anymore. My mental health was in tatters. I was having a breakdown weekly, if not every other day. I was forced to stream less, and there were times that it felt like that community I had worked so hard to build was slipping from my fingers. 

I searched for well-paying film jobs which were commuting distance from my house. I was met only with disappointment again. I decided that I needed to go back into freelance. It would mean taking a part-time job, commuting to New York City despite the cost, and probably working even longer 7-day weeks than I was currently working. So I searched for a production assistant or script supervisor position, something with a production scheduled a little further out. Something that would give me a chance to provide my two weeks notice.

I was still struggling though, and that was when Dylan said, “Why don’t you look for a part-time job now, so you can quit your job, and then look for something freelance?”

It might seem like an obvious suggestion. But it was more than that for me. It was permission.

You see, I was too afraid to quit my salaried performing arts job for anything less than a position that was at least somewhat related to my college degree.

I needed to hear from someone I cherished that, even if I quit to work outside of my job field, I would still be worthwhile and loved.

I found myself a part-time job close by. I turned in my two-weeks notice. I was done.

Then fucking COVID happened.

They couldn’t keep me on, and so I was forced to continue working as a personal assistant during an international pandemic. It really felt like the rug had been ripped out from under me.

As cases in New York declined though, I got a text from my employer saying she was opening up the ice cream shop next to her restaurant for the summer. I didn’t even ask how many hours she could offer there before I had written my (second) two week’s notice as a personal assistant.

It’s been over a month now. Compared to my personal assistant workflow amidst COVID-19, by all means, I have been working much more since switching jobs, while also getting paid less.

And I am 100% happier than I have been in some years.

Working a part-time job outside of my field has allowed me so much more freedom. I’m streaming on Twitch more consistently. I’ve opened my own online business, Gamer Girl Social Club, where I get to funnel all my ideas for cute video game-themed merch into making art. I’m even writing a new novel, tentatively called Lake Rats, based on an idea that came to me when visiting my mom’s campsite last month. Until last month, I couldn’t have even entertained the thought of taking a vacation.

Because my new job doesn’t require me to use my creative skills, I don’t feel creatively drained at the end of the day. Because I’m no longer salaried, work is just that… work. I leave the shop, and the shop doesn’t text me at eleven o’clock at night about some mundane task that suddenly needs to be done.

I had so much shame built up around the idea of quitting my job to work in customer service, and if I’m being honest, I still have some to work through. But I don’t regret my decision one bit.

There’s a lot of pressure as someone in a creative field to “make it”. Doing anything creative is such a risk, especially financially. I know I’m not the only one who’s ever felt the need to justify their passion by achieving some universally-accepted form of “success”.

Well, I’m here to tell you… you don’t have to.

I’m giving you permission to do what makes you happy in your life, even if it means turning your back on conventional success.

Success is not worth killing yourself over.

I know what I’ve done is not the right fit for everyone. I recognize I’m in a unique position. I’ve found a part-time job which not only doesn’t suck the soul out of me, but pays well enough to cover my share of rent. For most people, that’s like finding a fucking unicorn.

Whatever your version of this scenario is though, search for it. Allow yourself to chase what makes you happy. You don’t need to justify yourself or your passions to anyone.

Quit your job if you want to and if you can. Don’t compare your path with others. Be gentle with yourself. Stop fixating on “what comes next”.

I won’t lie to you and say that switching to a decent part-time job has solved all my problems. I still have bad mental health days. I still expect a lot more of myself than I should. I often set myself unattainable goals. But I’m finally working to afford following my passion, rather than to justify my passion.

Will I work in film again? Definitely. Right now, as COVID-19 still looms large, I’m focusing on running Gamer Girl Social Club, streaming, and writing both collaborative and personal projects. I’m in no rush to return to the film industry or NYC just yet.

And that’s a good feeling.

What steps have you taken in your personal and professional life to protect your mental health, while still pursuing your passion? What steps are you too afraid to take? Let me know in the comments section below.

Be safe and well.

-Shai