A not-insignificant part of my job is fielding phone calls from freelance writers who have questions. The questions can vary—Have you heard of any job openings? Are you interested in this pitch? An editor at another publication is trying to screw me, what should I do? Can you help me get a credential to this event?—but they all flow from the same problem, which is that carving out a career as a freelancer in this industry is basically impossible. Nobody ever made those phone calls more enjoyable than Soraya Roberts, who was a Contributing Writer here at Defector up until her death earlier this month. She was 46 years old.
When Soraya called, it was usually to pitch a new column idea, or ask if there was any wiggle room in the budget to pay for an extra piece from her that month, or offer some thoughts on how she might be able to help beef up Defector's arts and culture coverage. What always struck me about Soraya during these conversations was how breezily she handled them. The subtext of so many of our talks was uncomfortable and fraught—she was asking me to help her continue to scrape by as a professional writer in whatever way I could—but the actual experience of talking to her never was. It sucked to know that every time Soraya called I was going to disappoint her in some way, by not being able to offer her so many of the things she deserved, but when I saw her name pop up on my phone I would perk up nonetheless. I just really loved talking to her. I loved how quick she was to laugh, how excited she was to share her ideas, and how at ease she sounded.
I also loved her writing. Soraya was my favorite kind of critic, one who understood that her job wasn't to tell people if a piece of art was good or bad, or to intervene on every cultural conversation with her own take. She knew that the purpose of the job was to put real work into developing her own aesthetic sensibility, so that when it was applied to any given piece of work through criticism, the reader would come away with a better understanding of their own sensibility. Some of my favorite pieces Soraya ever wrote were about shows or movies I had never seen, because they still managed to put a new and interesting thought in my head, or teach me something about art I hadn't considered before.
Soraya deserved so much more than what this industry gave her. I'm certain that if she'd been lucky enough to work in an earlier era, when arts criticism was something a keen observer and talented writer could make a real living at, she would have enjoyed a long and comfortable career as a respected critic for whatever major daily newspaper was lucky enough to hire her. She would have been a fixture in the local arts scene, someone people recognized and looked forward to reading, and probably would have written many more books.
I only ever got to hang out with Soraya in person once. A few years ago, my wife and I were in Toronto, where Soraya lived, for a few nights. We arranged to meet up with her and Corey Atad for dinner, and I remember being nervous as we left the hotel. It's always a little stressful to meet people you've only ever interacted with online, and you never know how the personalities of relative strangers are going to mix. What I remember most from that night is how quickly Soraya eliminated any tension. She was funny and charming, and had everyone laughing almost as soon as she sat down. From there the night unspooled with ease. After we'd enjoyed our dinner and drinks, Soraya announced that she was feeling "desserty," so we walked a few blocks to a late-night bakery to get some cookies, and then she and Corey walked us back to our hotel. After I hugged her goodbye and went inside, I remember thinking that I really wanted to hang out with her again some day.
I'm going to miss Soraya a lot, as is everyone else here at Defector. Over the next few days we'll be curating some of our favorite pieces she wrote for us on the homepage. I hope you'll read and enjoy them.
