I broke up with a client last month. Actually, we just kind of ghosted each other, but it’s probably for the best.
I was writing for a travel platform that you’ve probably heard of through a content writing agency that you probably haven’t.
Their rates were below my usual rates, but I accepted the project because they used an automated project management system which meant I could claim work on my own schedule, and get paid for it on a twice-monthly cycle without the hassle of chasing down clients for unpaid invoices.
Sometimes, that’s all it takes to win me over.
The first five or ten articles went well: 10 Best [X] Things to Do in [X location], or something like that. Nothing I haven’t done before. The drafts were approved by the in-house editor, and then by the client a few days later, and I got paid.
Then I wrote an article about the most beautiful things to do in [X location]. I included a few of the most popular attractions, as well as some logistical details, like how to get there and how long a particular place had been in existence.
The in-house editor approved the post with a few minor tweaks.
A few weeks later, while in the middle of a trip to Cape Town and about to deliver a presentation at a conference, I finally heard back from the client.
It had more edit requests than I’ve ever seen before.
I’m not opposed to revisions (not to humblebrag, but I rarely get asked to change anything). But this was like writing a report that was at worst an A- and getting it back covered in red pen. The comments were along the same lines:
“Can you describe how it’s beautiful?”
“But what makes it beautiful?”
“How is [x] beautiful, tho?”
These were, in my mind, fairly ridiculous comments. I’d described snow-covered mountains, and white sandy beaches, and historical cobblestone streets.
I’d also described museums (which the client objected to because they weren’t beautiful enough), a historic brewpub (irrelevant to the topic), and a UNESCO World Heritage Site (“but what makes it beautiful tho???”).
I’d mentioned some of the activities that people could do in these locations — the same kinds of activities that my client advertised and were central to the appeal of these destinations. These, too, were not sufficiently about “beauty”.
I’d already spent so much time researching the article that I’d earned well below my usual rate per hour. And of course I’d closed the dozens of tabs I’d had open while writing the article, so if I wanted to return to the sources to pull out more evocative details or imagery, I’d have to look them up all over again.
Just for my own sanity, I checked a few competitor sites and saw that they had written about these places the same way I had — ugly museums and all.
As far as I was concerned, I’d met the criteria of the content brief and anything else was out of scope. I complained to the agency, which was, at least, sympathetic to my concerns, and handballed these edit to someone else so I didn’t have to deal with them.
(A few weeks later, I received an automated notification saying “These revisions turned out great!” Congrats to whoever pulled it off!)
I say this not just to vent about a client, but because I think it represents a larger problem in travel writing: an emphasis on beauty over reality, content over context. It makes it hard to trust anything you read about a place online.
A recent article in Business Insider called “Off the grid: How Lonely Planet lost its way” highlights how even the beloved guidebook brand fell prey to this effect:
Rob Price
“Hotel and restaurant listings, store hours, bus routes, and other swaths of content historically found in Lonely Planet's … guides were either significantly pared down or slashed entirely. In their place were a lot more photos.”
Stuart McDonald, the travel writer behind the long-running blog Travelfish, wrote an entire dissertation on the topic, studying how 40 years’ of Lonely Planet travel guides to Bali had changed not just where we go, but how we practice travel:
“When it comes to destinations, travel writers have it honed down… Where we fall down a bit I think, [is] more with regard to the practice of travel—think yes the what and the why, but also the how.”
The truth is, I wouldn’t trust a list of the most beautiful places to see in the world because we all have different ideas of what makes a place beautiful. For some, it’s enough to look at a beautiful view, while others want to experience it from a boat, or a bike, or the top of the mountain.
And in some cases, a beautiful place may be relatively beautiful for a particular region, but not necessarily worth traveling halfway across the world to see.
Increasingly, I find myself turning away from generic lists and toward resources that demonstrate a particular point-of-view about a location. I want to hear from people who have been to a place and experienced it the same way that I would.
At ESC KEY, JD Shadel writes about a new trend of “group trips hosted by people with an audience on social media platforms”:
JD Shadel
The idea is that someone with an online following plans a group trip — or works with a third-party company to do so — and their fans can pay to come along.
While travel by Tiktok algorithm seems to take influencer culture to its logical extreme, JD Shadel reminds us that “historically targeted travelers have used all kinds of tools to identify the physical location where they’ll be welcomed, find a sense of belonging and connect with their communities.“
That’s one of the reasons I created this site — to find other LGBTQ+ travelers who want to go to similar destinations or have similar experiences — and avoid falling into the same tourist traps as everyone else.
It seems preferable to picking up a guidebook that focuses on beauty, but fails to address overtourism, gentrification, personal safety, or crime.
So while I can’t say I’ll never write a travel listicle again, I won’t be writing for that particular client any more. And hopefully next time, I’ll have free rein to write about my favorite things to see and do in a place, without shoehorning it into someone’s else idea of beauty.
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