In early December 2004, I encountered a promising posting on Craigslist:  Score, Spain’s first and only English-language sports and entertainment monthly, seeks contributors. 

            In short, the magazine wanted a compilation of top ten lists for its year-end issue.  I don’t know much about sports, but, at the time, I was six months into an ongoing tenure, supplying reviews of rock shows to Gigwise, a site based out of Liverpool.  I figured I had a good shot with the music angle, so I sent my list of top ten albums to Score.  I even sent them my top ten films, just to be safe. 

            On December 9, I received a reply from one of Score’s editors.  “Love the album list.  We want it.”  Not only did they want my top ten list, they also wanted to work with me for future assignments.  The editor, an American expatriate, provided the standard briefing given to all new writers – a history of the magazine, its future distribution aims, and the rates it paid to its contributors.  Turns out, Score was set to expand out of its base in Madrid into regions as far-reaching as Japan and Argentina.  More importantly, they were going to pay me $150 each month, just to review albums.  “Obviously our rates will increase as we grow.”  This is too good to be true, I kept thinking, gathered round the Christmas ham with family.  Pinch me, mother, please.

            The issue arrived in mid-January, a glossy periodical brimming over with advertisements (“in just three issues our number of advertisers has grown by more than one thousand percent”).  Big names, too – Real Madrid, K-Swiss, Absolut Vodka.  My top ten list occupied a two-page spread in the center of the magazine.  They used an appealing font.  They employed minimal edits.  I ingested a six-pack of San Miguel in delirious exultation.  This Score was the real deal. 

            As winter turned to spring, I sent, via email, my reviews of six to eight albums, reliably by the fifth of each month.  At the editor’s request, I even began to incorporate interviews with bands into my submissions, including Inouk from New York City and Dinamo from Sweden.  Things were looking up.

            On January 28, I received an email from Score’s financial department.

Hi,

I write you from Score Magazine about the article you have write for us in the last month.

Following the conversation you have had with the editor, I need, please, you to fill the next format of invoice (document attached) including your bank details.

The payment would be done when I receive your detail.

Please, answer me asap

Best Regards.

Alexandra Garcia
Financial Director

     Immediately, a bell of cyber-paranoia went off in my head.  This wondrous new email account, this gmail, introduced to me by a charitable ex-girlfriend of Barcelona, was indispensable in the sense that it could store a limitless amount of information.  At the same time, gmail stores every message you have ever sent and will ever send in a convenient folder accessible with the click of a mouse.            

           The bell of paranoia echoed with a clang. Do I really want my bank account number floating around on the Web indefinitely, for perpetrators to peruse into perpetuity?  With my fiscal interests in mind, and in support of my retired mother’s former employer, I put some airmail postage on an onionskin envelope addressed to Madrid.  Score would receive my bank information, alright, but they wouldn’t receive it by electronic means.  I dropped the envelope in the mailbox, stretched my legs, and waited.

            Weeks passed.  Weeks turned into months.  My bank statement indicated no activity from Madrid.  Score was not paying me, but they weren’t draining me, either.  I queried the editor – that envelope I sent, with my bank info in it…did you ever receive it?  I received no response.  I checked the mail slot daily for anything with a Madrid postmark.  These issues to which I contributed, these February, March, and April installments…where were they?   

            Finally, on Saturday, the twelfth of March, I broke down.  I tore open the phone book to that page on international codes.  I cracked the code for Spain (011 + 34 +1).  I gave the editor a call. 

            No voice with a heartbeat answered; this robot only spoke Spanish.  I left a message of measured calm, no unnecessary histrionics.  Two days later, I got an answer. 

            “I apologize for the silence from my end. Here is the situation: the financial status of the magazine had not been correctly represented to me when I commissioned your last article. At that time I sincerely
believed that the finances of the magazine were secure and that all of my writers had either been paid or were to be paid shortly. Much to my chagrin, I have since learned otherwise. It's little consolation, I know, but I have not received a paycheck, either, and am now out of a job. I have been put on hold for two weeks, waiting for news. Unless a large investment sails through, the March issue of Score will be its last. In any case, I will no longer work as the magazine's editor.

I am doing everything I can to ensure that every writer receives his due. I am exceedingly embarrassed and sorry about all this. The financial situation of the magazine should have been made clear to me months ago -- before I started commissioning stories. I am not sure what else to say at the moment. I promise to send you a copy of the issues you have yet to see. And I'll keep you informed.” 

            I felt worse for the editor than I felt for myself.  Days later I informed her of an ad that I saw in a local Chicago paper.  An education consulate in Madrid was searching for teachers.  “Not sure if you’ve ever taught before, but…” The editor wrote back with a surprise.

            “Thanks for the heads up. Really nice of you. Actually I'm starting a magazine for expats in Spain. It's a monthly online lifestyle magazine, but we cover a little of everything: politics, business, music, film, literature and art. I was going to contact you anyway to see if you'd be interested in writing CD reviews for us. The problem is that we have no budget; no one (including staff) will be getting a salary until we go to print, which, depending on advertising revenue, we hope to do in six months.”

            “Sure,” I wrote, “I’d be glad to contribute.”  This is the country of the second chance, no?  Plus, the cache of writing for a foreign publication proves too strong a draw to resist.  In the weeks to come, the editor would announce the launch date for the website (May 15) and offer a PDF file of proposed cover art.  She even sent an attachment that contained my reviews from the March issue.  As for the rest? 

“Ill get you pdfs of all your articles from score; i'm just waiting on the designer to get back to me. i've given up all hope of hearing from my former employer...”

            May 15 has come and gone and still no sign of the resuscitated Score.  No, it won’t be called Score, but as of today, it doesn’t have a title.  “We’ve pushed back the deadline to May 20, but I’m not confident we’ll make that even.  By the end of the month for sure.” 

           None of this surprises me.  I even laugh it off.  I don’t get worked up anymore; it’s pointless to do so.  So many magazines slam their doors in your face, when one of them actually grants you access, it’s a rare and rich treat.  When someone takes a chance on you, it’s best to stick it out, regardless of the snags and the roadblocks.  Who knows where the relationship may lead?

©2005 – Josh Cox. This article may not be reproduced in any manner whatsoever, in any form, for any reason, without the express, written consent of the author. Violators will be prosecuted.