Freelance Fail: I Was Scammed Out Of Almost $1000
The first time I got scammed hurt the most.
A few years ago, I came across a job ad for an independent news company. I had never heard of them, so I clicked on the link to their website. It was sleek, modern and obviously professionally built.
The actual writing was even more impressive.
I only had a couple of unpaid internships and one paltry paid freelance gig under my belt, but I applied anyway. I longed for the prestige (and money) that would come from having a real writing job. Not to mention, it was a virtual position, so I could do it from home.
Two weeks later, I was hired.
I almost couldn’t believe my good fortune. But my grandmother always taught me not to question my blessings, so I didn’t.
Instead, I dove in full steam ahead into my new gig.
I spent the next two days reading over style guides and contracts.
By that Saturday, I had my login credentials, an assigned vertical, section editor and access to the team’s private Slack group.
Finally, I was a real writer with a real writing gig.
For the next two weeks, I spent eight hours a day writing up to six 500 word articles for $15 a pop. That rate sounds egregious today, but that was plenty of money for a broke college student.
Plus, I loved the gig. My section editor was a sweet middle-aged lady, who gleefully took me under her wing. And even though I was hired to write about music, I was also given the chance to write about lifestyle topics, science, and even technology!
During the first two weeks of my job, I produced 56 articles — each which had to be signed off on before being published. Per the agreed-upon rate, my first paycheck should have been $840.
That Friday, I created my first invoice.
When my editors signed off on the accuracy of my invoice, I emailed it to the head of the financial department, who promptly responded that she would process my payment and have it to me within forty-eight hours.
Given that my contract stated that payment went out on Fridays, I assumed this waiting period was because I was new. And when you’re new you don’t want to shake things up too much.
So I waited.
I spent the rest of Friday and Saturday thinking about how much good I could do with $840. You know, things like eat a balanced meal and buy toiletries that didn’t come from the dollar store.
I also spent a significant amount of time planning out article proposals for the next week. By Sunday afternoon, I had no less than twenty article ideas that I just couldn’t wait to pass off to my editor on Monday.
That night, I decided to casually check the work Slack, which I signed out of when I wasn’t active. I expected to just quietly lurk over the rest of the team’s weekend chitchat, but I walked in on a storm.
Turns out, I wasn’t the only person who hadn’t been paid that week. There were at least twenty other people who were angrily bonding over not being paid. As I scrolled through, I struggled to wave off my rising concern, but eventually got it under control.
This news company existed before I was brought on. And just two days before, everyone was happy and amicable in the way you’re forced to be around people you work adjacent to. If this company had a history of not paying, then surely I would have heard about the drama.
This must have been some kind of administrative mistake.
As I continued to read through the public Slack channels, I realized that what I thought was a fluke was a history of unsavory behavior.
This was the third consecutive pay period — six weeks total — that some writers hadn’t been paid.
The backlash had been curbed because the site’s owner had sent out an email blast, which forbid all financial related discussion in Slack. Anyone who had any issues was supposed to email him or the accountant directly.
I assume this was done to keep the writers in the dark about their team members not getting paid.
The defiant writer who broke protocol was quietly deleted from the Slack group. But whoever kicked him out wasn’t able to do so before other writers could see his pleas and realize that hey, this wasn’t an administrative error.
We were all being duped.
The next few hours consisted of section editors attempting to put out fires they didn’t start, and fielding questions from writers who didn’t understand that they weren’t involved with the payroll. They, too, were dealing with not being paid some or all of what they were owed.
I also responded to at least a dozen private messages from writers I hadn’t previously interacted with before. Some writers, apparently, had been paid and they wanted to know if I was on that list. Still, over half of the freelance staff had been cheated out of hundreds or thousands of dollars.
The remaining optimism I had regarding this situation faded. I realized that, no, I wouldn’t be getting paid this week. And all of those wonderful meals I’d already been salivating over would have to wait.
The next two weeks were filled with frustrating emails between me, the website’s owner, and my editors, which grew less and less polite as time went on.
There were also private messages between me and other writers in the Slack group, since speaking publicly had, once again, been barred with thinly veiled threats of legal action for disparaging the company.
By this point, I’d already waved off a million read flags. But this one was absolutely impossible to ignore.
I could understand mistakes, clerical errors, or even accidentally overshooting the budget. But once they owner threatened us for rightly inquiring about money we were owed, I was done. It was clear the owner had no interest in doing right by his employees.
It’s been about four years now, and I never did get my money. At the time, I wasn’t in a financial position to pursue legal action. I also didn’t have the time because I had to scramble to find a job that actually paid.
And now, I just don’t have the emotional energy to deal with it.
I decided to share my story as a cautionary tale.
Aside from the fact that I was young and naive, I willingly overlooked warning signs that could have saved me from this ordeal.
For starters, I wasn’t qualified for this job on paper. Once I was given a chance to learn the ropes, I proved myself skilled enough to meet the demands. But there was nothing about my limited experience that should have made me seem attractive to an employer.
I suspect that I, like the dozen or other newer writers, was hired to balance out the eventual fallout. The owner probably anticipated that some of his staff’s patience was running short, and he was going to need new writers to replace those who jumped ship.
And if you want to minimize backlash, then who better to hire than a bright-eyed college student?
Conversations around pay were also particularly vague. (I realize now this is because the same editors who trained me were dealing with their own wage issues.) And the people up top attempted to control how we expressed ourselves within our Slack group.
Finally, even though I had a wonderful time during the actual writing portion of my gig, there was always something in the back of my mind telling me this opportunity wasn’t going to pan out well for me.
This was my gut. I should have listened to it, but didn’t.
Moral of the story? If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. If you have concerns about how something job related — especially when it comes to your money — you should speak up. And if you aren’t allowed to speak up, that’s a pretty good indicator that something is wrong.
Freelance writers are already less protected than traditional workers. Therefore, we must do due diligence in checking out companies before we devote our precious time on projects that are lining other people’s pockets.
