Being Ghosted by the New York Times

On November 8th, in response to the election of Donald Trump, I pitched an editor at The New York Times, trying to sell a piece about a potential Democratic candidate for president in 2028. I felt that the argument was provocative, and that the timing was right given the crisis in the Democratic party. I have the benefit of being a highly experienced and capable freelance writer. I’ve written for the Times, I believe, on five previous occasions. The editor replied to the pitch with enthusiasm but informed me that he was no longer the right person to pitch to directly. He would, however, send the pitch along to the appropriate people. I felt a little silly about not knowing who to pitch, exactly, but that’s how it goes; the Times has a more complicated internal structure than the IRS, and the automated form for freelance pitches you’ll find on their website functions - is meant to function - as a digital “Go Away” sign. The word came back that they were interested; could I do it in 900 words? I wrote the piece the next day, 900 words on the button, and sent it along. After a week, I received a Google doc with requested edits. I made them, and said “back to you” to the editor. Since then I’ve heard nothing. Enough time has passed to let me know that it’s a definite no. I can’t try to sell it somewhere else, at this point; the piece is stale, the post-election moment has passed. And no one ever bothered to say “Thanks, but no thanks,” which is all I would have asked for.

I have been writing for a public audience for sixteen and a half years. In that span, there have been four occasions where an editor has told me to write a draft, sent me requested edits that I did in fact make, and then simply not contacted me to tell me that the piece was not moving forward. Three out of those four times, the publication in question was The New York Times.

I want to be clear about several things here. Because of my reputation, which like most reputations is largely but not entirely self-inflicted, many regard me as a permanent amateur and as someone who must be difficult to work with, for editors. But neither of those perceptions reflect the reality. You may consult my credits if you’d like. I am confident that they are impressive by pretty much anyone’s fair standard. And the idea that I’m difficult to work with simply isn’t true. I think if you could survey the dozens of editors I’ve worked with over the course of my career you’d find a near-universal opinion that my drafts are clean and on time, that I’m very amenable to editing, and that I’m professional throughout the process. I am very protective of what gets published under my name, and I’m willing to argue when I think I need to defend what’s best for a given piece. But I believe in the value of being edited and I know that, given all of the rest of my baggage, I can’t afford to be difficult in the editing process. This is what I do, I take it seriously, and I pride myself in my work. I am not difficult to edit or to otherwise work with as a freelancer.

I say those things so that you’ll please believe me when I tell you what I am and am not criticizing. I am, again, a very experienced freelancer, and I know all the vagaries of the industry. It’s a profession that’s filled with endemic professional disrespect and systemic mistreatment, and I’ve experienced all of it. Over the course of my career, I’ve dealt with all kinds of casual mistreatment from editors and publications. Most often, that’s been the typical writing-another-email-asking-when-I’ll-be-paid-six-months-after-publication stuff. (As I always tell young writers, there’s the work itself, and then there’s the Quest to Get Paid.) And getting rejected is simply a fact of life. I have sent hundreds of pitches in my life that received no response, and had that happened here I wouldn’t have thought twice. (I pitched a piece to commemorate the upcoming 25th anniversary of the film Girl, Interrupted all around town, and got no bites.) On a philosophical level I think it’s absurd that rejection-through-silence is so normalized in the industry - I don’t, in fact, think that the average editor who fields pitches is too busy to hit a macro that sends a form “not interested” email back, thanks - but I understand that that’s simply a fact of life in the industry. Nor am I mad that I won’t be paid a dime for any of this because unpaid work is a totally normalized aspect of the business. It’s ugly and absurd that that’s true, but it is true. No kill fee was negotiated, and I’m assuming that (as in all things they do) the Times is dedicated to their usual pecking order of professional courtesy and only extends the privilege of kill fees to the people who are at the absolute top of the industry and don’t need them. Whatever laments I may have about this business, the fact is that a freelancer is expected to have no claim to any monetary compensation for work rendered that does not result in publication, and I did not assume I had any.

No, all I am saying is that when you express interest in a piece, ask me to write it, and give me edits to make, and I make them, you have to tell me you aren’t interested anymore if you aren’t interested anymore. That’s all that I’m asking for, wretch that I am, a simple “no.” The 90-second effort (if that) to tell me that the work you commissioned is no longer wanted, that is what I expect and have not received from the single biggest and best-resourced periodical on the face of the planet. I have commissioned a handful of people to write (for pay) for my various modest publications over the years, not the kind of thing that would look impressive on the resume of someone applying to work at The New York Times. Just throwing a few dollars at writers I like, no big deal. Amateurish as those efforts may have been, what I would never do, can not imagine doing, is to tell a writer that I was interested in publishing their work for money, request a draft, ask them for edits, and then simply not contact them again after receiving those edits. I’m afraid I simply can’t imagine doing that, to anyone. As suggested, I myself have a particular reputation within the industry, which is ultimately my fault. But my reputation really shouldn’t matter; no freelance writer should be treated this way, regardless of how much clout they have.

My particular frustration here stems in part from the fact that the Times is so endlessly impressed with its own professionalism and seriousness. To a great extent, the paper’s considerable self-regard is earned. Every time I have ever written about the newspaper, I’ve taken great pains to extoll its many virtues, and those virtues are indeed considerable. I am eternally grateful that there are still publications that are dedicated to investigative reporting that tenaciously pursues the facts even when public interest, and thus the opportunity for monetization, is limited. Few have the resources that the New York Times dedicates to that task and even fewer do so with such skill and tenacity. I pitched the New York Times for a reason; everyone wants to write for the New York Times. But this preeminence has, in recent years, become industry domination, of a sort that is inherently distorting and unhealthy. As various rivals for the crown have fallen back, thanks to the seemingly intractable economic collapse of the basic media financial model, the Times has flourished economically - which has in turn allowed it to ruthlessly poach the best talent in the industry, extending its reputational dominance as well. I don’t, of course, blame leadership at the NYT for doing their best to advance the paper on a financial and reputational level. But with no real rivals to its current status, the paper has little incentive to treat people without preexisting celebrity or prestige - people like me and most other freelancers - with even minimal respect and professionalism. What ambitious journalist or writer could afford to publicly criticize the New York Times?

If we have to be lorded over by this one publication, which prides itself on its ethics and its professionalism, you’d like for that professionalism to be extended to those of us who are just trying to hold on in a broken industry.

I am far from alone in my frustrations. For some time I’ve become something of a sounding board for dissatisfaction with the industry; I have a larger network in this business than you think. For various uninteresting reasons many people in media have reached out to me over the years to share their unhappiness. In the last decade, dozens of other writers and editors working in the field have shared with me their exasperation at the conduct of the imperial newspaper that has such immense influence over the professions of newsgathering and commentary. And the term I would use to describe their overarching complaint towards the NYT would be casual disrespect. The kind of casual disrespect that’s enabled by the industry domination I mentioned before. The casual disrespect with which the New York Times treats freelancers, vendors, lower-level employees, and everyone in the media who works in their large shadow - that is to say, everyone in the media - is a constant source of frustration, an open secret. This is just true: many people who work in this business have reported petty mistreatment on the part of the New York Times and insufferable arrogance on the part of its leadership. I can’t make the people in charge there care about that; no one can. That’s the whole point of being the imperial newspaper, I guess. But for the record, a deep sense of unhappiness and disrespect is not found only among freelancers who contribute or would like to contribute to the Times, but among many of their salaried employees as well, particularly the younger ones. It is, after all, a notoriously cutthroat place to work. Now staffed almost exclusively with graduates of elite universities who have spent their entire lives grinding for more laurels and greater status, the New York Times needs essentially no one, and thus acts like everyone who it cuts checks to is expendable; that this creates an internal culture of mutual distrust and pervasive bitterness should go without saying.

Doing this sucks for me and I hate it, for the record. Who would want to foreclose on the possibility of writing again for the publication that’s the envy of every other? I enjoy writing for my newsletter and am incredibly grateful that it allows me to make a living as a writer. I can still get published in a few high-profile places, if I really try and the relevant editor is in a good mood, though it gets harder all the time. But there is no exposure like NYT exposure. The money they pay isn’t particularly good, again unless you’re among a small cohort of the elite that they take seriously. In a post-Twitter world, though, there’s no force on the planet that’s better able to surface good writing, to put it in front of an audience, to make it matter. That’s why I wanted to publish the piece in question, because the Times can start a conversation unlike any other publication. I don’t want to be on bad terms with a paper that hoards that ability; all any of us really wants is an audience. I have three books coming out in the next three or four years, and I don’t want to spark enmity from the paper with the biggest reach and influence in the publishing world. (Not that they’d given my books bad reviews, for the record; they’d just decide not to review them.) And, to be clear, this whole thing also feels quite pathetic, to me, like I’m throwing pebbles at the Pentagon. It’s futile and degrading. Nothing is going to come of this, other than me making my professional position worse. But everybody in the industry is afraid of the Times, and I don’t blame them, and at some point you have to just say that this shit sucks. This, too, is just true: a ton of people in the industry feel deeply misused by the New York Times but know that they can’t say anything about it, because working there is one of a tiny number of outs that are left in this industry. It’s a recipe for the kind of abuse that stems not from malice but from indifference.

There will, of course, be people in the business who make fun of me for this effort. You can chalk that up to Stockholm syndrome, the self-interested desire to stay on the good side of the NYT, the belief that decent treatment is not possible in this industry, and personal dislike for me. I will simply respond by saying that better behavior is absolutely achievable. I have written for little magazines started by undergraduates in their dorm rooms that have treated me with respect and promptly paid me whatever they could; the Dow Jones Company once paid me $4000 for a piece they never ran. Acting with respect towards those in the most precarious positions of the industry, when you have no particular incentive to do so, is possible. The New York Times can get it together to send freelancers an email saying “no thanks” when that in fact is their decision.

I have absolutely no ability to influence the New York Times or anyone in a position of authority there. The idea that I could ever force them to do anything is laughable. I have zero juice in this business. Which underlines the point: they have to decide if they believe that there are basic standards for how to treat contingent labor, that apply to everyone, including the most influential, envied, and powerful newspaper on Earth. It’s up to you, guys. Only you can decide if you care about the freelance workers who are totally powerless in the face of your dominance of the industry. You will never give a shit about me specifically and that’s fine. But it happens that today I am the one telling you: a vast number of people who freelance are deeply unhappy with the way you do business, but because you are the 800 pound gorilla, feel that they can’t say anything. Only you can decide to care about them and their working conditions and demonstrating basic respect for the people you lord over. You are the imperial newspaper. Only you can decide if you care. No one can make you treat freelancers specifically or the people you employ in general with respect and professionalism. It’s up to you. This is the position you find yourself in: there is no force on earth ensuring you engage in basic respect other than your integrity.

There are tons of people working at the NYT that I like and admire; there are a small handful that I’m glad to call friends. They put out a remarkable number of perceptive and provocative pieces, plus also Bret Stephens. A lot of people there are clearly just hanging on, trying to maintain their grasp on one of the last good jobs in media. (A lot of people, over the years, have called the Times the most alienating place they’ve ever worked in their lives.) I don’t blame them, just like I don’t blame the paper for existing in its permanent state of benevolent condescension towards the rest of us. I do blame, however, a culture of impunity and self-regard that has less to do with a consistently improving product and more to do with an industry that is collapsing and thus can offer little in the way of competition. For a long time, I thought of the leadership at The New York Times as fundamentally negligent but never malicious; I imagined they trundled along casually disrespecting the people who they have not deigned to bless with their condescending form of approval, unaware that they were doing so. After the last half-decade or so, I’ve come to think that they know exactly what they’re doing, and that they enjoy it.