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In my first story as a stringer for a daily newspaper, I had to quote a former governor of Texas, the spelling of whose name would be a good trivia question (it’s Connally). I spelled it wrong. The copy editor liked my writing so much that he sent the story right through to the composing room without spotting the error. It called out to me the minute I saw it in print. I felt humiliated. The lesson I learned that day has stood me in good stead for the past 30-plus years: Assume the editor who handles your copy is lazy, drunk, or both. Never submit for publication anything you wouldn’t be proud to see beneath your byline if no one bothered to clean it up. That’s Rule Number One.

Rule Two is one you learn fast if you write hard news: Get the copy in on time. The presses will roll whether you’re there or not. When I moved to writing for magazines, I took my pathological punctuality with me. I discovered that never missing a deadline set me apart from most magazine writers. I realized it was more important to be reliable than to be talented. Editors don’t like to lie awake at night worrying about having a hole to fill if a freelancer lets them down. If you make them miss sleep, they won’t assign you again. Despite Rule Number One, any editor would rather receive copy that is short of perfection on time and fix it, than have to scramble because you’re late.

Rule Three is one I figured out when I lost a steady gig on which I had come to depend: Don’t let any one editor or publication provide all of your income. I decided that 20 percent was enough for any one client and, with a few stupid exceptions, I stuck to that rule. That way, when a publication goes under, or the editor changes jobs or just decides he or she is tired of you, you don’t face financial disaster.

The exceptions were times I got seduced by the offer of a contract, once to do a newsletter that I wrote for three years. Writing about the same subject every month for 36 issues turned out to be a terminal bore. But it was scary to give notice because the money was good and I’d lose some important contacts in the process. Another time I accepted a retainer contract with a prestigious technology magazine on the condition that I write for them alone – a major mistake. By the time we neared the end of the year’s contract, the editor-in-chief was acting as if she owned me, and the publisher was demanding that I sign over rights to more than 50 articles I’d written as a freelancer to which I’d sold first serial rights only. Rather than give up my rights, I declined to sign for a second year. I hoped to continue writing for the publication as an independent, but I’ve never had another assignment from that magazine. I’d like to say my income never skipped a beat either time, but I’d be lying. Still, I didn’t starve, the bills got paid and I moved on to other gigs.

That leads to Rule Four: Pay yourself first. I learned long ago to save 10 percent of every check I receive. Not that I’ve been perfect in my resolve, or never spent any of the money I put away for things other than necessities. But I’ve seen to it that there’s always a cushion to land on when I fell out of favor with an editor, or a magazine I wrote for went belly-up. If 10 percent seems impossible, try five percent, but take it off the top of every check. Having some-thing to fall back on gives you the courage to stand up for yourself.

Rule Five has to do with when and how you get paid. Publishers like to pay on publication because it gives them more time to hold onto their money, part of which should become yours as soon as you send them – in professional, publishable form – the article you agreed to write. The argument against payment on publication is that it permits the periodical to stockpile stories for which it need never pay if it never publishes them, as protection against the writers who never get their copy in on time. Your plan is to let the assigning editor know you expect to be paid when the piece is accepted. In practice, that will usually mean 30 days after acceptance. You do, of course, send an invoice right along with the article and pretend to assume that the piece is accepted immediately unless you’re told otherwise.

Rule Six is this: If you’re not paid on Day 31, get on the phone. Ask for the accounts payable department, not the editor who assigned you. If I’m calling a small company, I say who I am and tell the clerk who answers that I’m checking on invoice number such-and-such, which was due yesterday. If I’m calling a large company, I say I’m my bookkeeper and ask the status of the invoice, referring to myself in the third person. If the editor hasn’t approved your invoice for payment, you’ll know immediately and can then call the editor. If it has been approved but not paid, it will probably go into the next check-writing cycle. Accounts payable clerks hate calls like that.

All of these rules have one underlying principle: You’re a working professional who deserves to be paid, paid properly, and paid on time for your work. An amateur writes for love – that’s what the word means. There’s nothing wrong with writing for love if you have another source of income. But if writing is the way you earn your living, then you’re in business and must behave like an entrepreneur. Your writing is the product you sell. People take you at your own estimate: If you act as though you are worthy of respect, you’ll get it.