SluggMail™ *01 | Cultivating Cultural Curiosity
A fundamental practice that you should never let go of.
The permanent condition that you must accept as a writer is that you will never know everything. I don’t even know everything about my own personal interests. There will always be perspectives you can’t access, people you’ll never get along with, and communities you will never be let into — or may never understand.
The internet tricks you into thinking that proximity to information is the same as understanding, but scrolling past something is not experiencing it. Many writers, without realising it, can end up writing as voyeurs. It isn’t blasphemous to do so. I mean, I’m sure I was one in my own writing as well at one point. But I can’t allow myself to constantly be that and just get a kick out of watching and writing about something from the very distant sidelines.
Genuine cultural curiosity is an act of engagement — long enough that what you are writing about has the chance to change how you think, rather than merely give you material.
🐌 The (Long) Slug 🐌
“The culture” is a term that means everything and nothing. You can attach it to whatever — the culture of thrifting in the Levant, the culture of partying in Dubai, the culture of yada yada yada. Exactly why we can’t approach it as one big subject. It is approached through small, specific stories you get curious about…this could be something happening in your city this weekend, or a scene you’ve never stepped into.
Go and explore it. Even if you hate it. And especially if you hate it. Then ask yourself why. Is it subjective (just not your taste?) or is it objective — something you can recognise has value within its own culture even if it’s not for you?
That distinction and analysis is your first step to exploring an idea and potentially writing outside your own taste on purpose. But again, not as a voyeur, but a curious active participant.
For example, my general aesthetic instincts and likings skew Asian — Japanese and Chinese specifically, and not Middle Eastern. I’m sure this has to do with the fact that I was born in Malaysia and spent a good part of my childhood there. I also love gothic literature, psychological thriller, dystopia, and mystical matters, none of it particularly found in my writing portfolio. But my own leanings do not excuse me from avoiding curiosity about what I don’t gravitate toward. If I only ever engage with what I already like, I don’t just stay ignorant; I never actually expand my knowledge and personal taste.
Whenever I decide to write, I keep asking: I’m Arab, I live in Dubai, but am I the only kind of person who lives here? Am I the only Arab with XYZ experience? Obviously not. So who else is here, what are they dealing with, what are they consuming, what about different countries — and am I willing to find out?
This applies just as much to sociopolitical topics as it does to taste. What’s discussed openly in the GCC isn’t what’s discussed openly in North Africa, and they’re not interchangeable just because someone slaps “Arab” or “MENA” on both.
Do not fall for lazy generalisation built from your own immediate circle, not research. I can think that everyone listens to hip-hop as much as I do because my friends do, but that might not be the most listened-to genre in Dubai/UAE/GCC/MENA/SWANA.
Let’s assume you want to explore why Arabs love/gravitate towards Rap and Hip-Hop more — ask yourself these questions: Which country/city am I focusing on? Where can I source statistics? Can I use some user-generated info found on IG/Reddit/Twitter (X, whatever)? Am I speaking to Khaleeji Arabs, Levant Arabs, Afro Arabs, North Africans that speak Arabic…? Have I ever been to a hip-hop concert in said country I am exploring? Do I listen to a lot of hip-hop or do I just stream popular songs? Would my personal input be of value? Would I be able to get opposing opinions for this piece? How can I shape this story if my claim turns out to be false?
Every time you widen your surface area within a statement, your research must widen too. These questions can scare you and make you drop the topic, or they can push you to test them out. Engage with the scene you want to cover, ask people who are involved, and be precise about the boundaries of the claim you are exploring.
“But I don’t write/care about rap or music writing.”
Okay, and what happens when you are a staff writer and this is requested by your editor? And why not view it as an opportunity to learn a different form of reporting? You may never write another piece about music, but you will take the lessons you learn from this experience and apply them elsewhere.
I’ll give you a fun example.
I recently wrote a piece for PLAYERS called “90 Minutes in a Lifetime,” about the culture of football obsession. For context, I know nothing about football. I don’t watch it, I don’t care about it. But I understand fandom — I’m a massive Star Wars fan; there’s a pure silver Yoda in my house, action figures, stationery, and much more. So I understand the impulse to collect and to feel something bigger than yourself through a piece of culture. Similar to football fandom, I also inherited this love for Star Wars through my father.
What I didn’t understand was that football specifically is what makes grown men build their identity around a club like Arsenal. So I got curious about the gap between what I did understand (fandom, collectables, belonging) and what I didn’t (football itself).
I also know that film stars can feel suffocated by their fans - that curiosity is what led me to my closing paragraph that said: “There is a reason clubs call their fans “the twelfth man” because the effect is easily measurable. When Bastian Schweinsteiger – former German soccer player and one of the best of his generation – was once asked before a match against Borussia Dortmund whether he feared the opposing players or their coach more, he chose neither and referred to the 25,000 fans standing as a single block behind the goal, saying, “It’s the Yellow Wall I’m most afraid of.””
I built the whole piece on a subject I have zero personal investment in because I was curious about the shape of the obsession, even without personally caring about its object.
The skill that you will be able to cherish your whole life as a writer is making your curiosity agile. Not everything will genuinely interest you, and that’s fine. But train yourself to find the entry point through a place that you do understand, so it can bridge you into what you don’t.
Think of curiosity as a stretching exercise — some days you’ll stretch far, some days not so much, but it should always be in motion. And when you do decide to stretch toward something unfamiliar, commit to it fully. That’s what lands the pitch, that’s what makes you a sharper thinker, and that’s what makes you more awake to the world you’re supposedly writing about.
Why does this matter as a beginner and forever in the long run?
You will not always get assignments that flatter your personal taste.
And second, when you pitch to an editor, they can smell, almost immediately, whether you’re someone who will actually dive into an unfamiliar topic and give it weight, or whether you’ll skim the surface and call it a day.
You don’t want to be the second kind. At the end of the day, your job is to write, and write with real engagement, regardless of whether the subject was your idea of a good time. Don’t assume you can cash-grab knowledge you are sharing with the world, and remember that being a journalist has an ethical and cultural responsibility.
HOMEWORK
No one learns how to swim by reading about swimming. So here are some tasks that you can do (and even I do myself sometimes) to engage with your mind before you start writing. This is actually the first task I assign my interns (before I even select them):
Make a list of three articles you love and three you hate, and tell yourself why.
Not “it’s bad,” not “I loved it.” There must be deeper reasoning, because that’s how you know (and how your editor understands) your baseline — how far you’re willing to travel outside your own taste, how rigorously you can name what pulls you in versus what you’re dismissing on instinct. That’s the actual measure of curiosity — how honestly you can account for why.
🐌 The (Long) Slug 🐌
“The culture” is a term that means everything and nothing. You can attach it to whatever — the culture of thrifting in the Levant, the culture of partying in Dubai, the culture of yada yada yada. Exactly why we can’t approach it as one big subject. It is approached through small, specific stories you get curious about…this could be something happening in your city this weekend, or a scene you’ve never stepped into.
Go and explore it. Even if you hate it. And especially if you hate it. Then ask yourself why. Is it subjective (just not your taste?) or is it objective — something you can recognise has value within its own culture even if it’s not for you?
That distinction and analysis is your first step to exploring an idea and potentially writing outside your own taste on purpose. But again, not as a voyeur, but a curious active participant.
For example, my general aesthetic instincts and likings skew Asian — Japanese and Chinese specifically, and not Middle Eastern. I’m sure this has to do with the fact that I was born in Malaysia and spent a good part of my childhood there. I also love gothic literature, psychological thriller, dystopia, and mystical matters, none of it particularly found in my writing portfolio. But my own leanings do not excuse me from avoiding curiosity about what I don’t gravitate toward. If I only ever engage with what I already like, I don’t just stay ignorant; I never actually expand my knowledge and personal taste.
Whenever I decide to write, I keep asking: I’m Arab, I live in Dubai, but am I the only kind of person who lives here? Am I the only Arab with XYZ experience? Obviously not. So who else is here, what are they dealing with, what are they consuming, what about different countries — and am I willing to find out?
This applies just as much to sociopolitical topics as it does to taste — and soon, you’ll realise that everything does have a sociopolitical edge to it. What’s discussed openly in the GCC isn’t what’s discussed openly in North Africa, and they’re not interchangeable just because someone slaps “Arab” or “MENA” on both.
Do not fall for lazy generalisation built from your own immediate circle, not research. I can think that everyone listens to hip-hop as much as I do because my friends do, but that might not be the most listened-to genre in Dubai/UAE/GCC/MENA/SWANA.
Let’s assume you want to explore why Arabs love/gravitate towards Rap and Hip-Hop more — ask yourself these questions: Which country/city am I focusing on? Where can I source statistics? Can I use some user-generated info found on IG/Reddit/Twitter (X, whatever)? Am I speaking to Khaleeji Arabs, Levant Arabs, Afro Arabs, North Africans that speak Arabic…? Have I ever been to a hip-hop concert in said country I am exploring? Do I listen to a lot of hip-hop or do I just stream popular songs? Would my personal input be of value? Would I be able to get opposing opinions for this piece? How can I shape this story if my claim turns out to be false?
Every time you widen your surface area within a statement, your research must widen too. These questions can scare you and make you drop the topic, or they can push you to test them out. Engage with the scene you want to cover, ask people who are involved, and be precise about the boundaries of the claim you are exploring.
“But I don’t write/care about rap or music writing.”
Okay, and what happens when you are a staff writer and this is requested by your editor? And why not view it as an opportunity to learn a different form of reporting? You may never write another piece about music, but you will take the lessons you learn from this experience and apply them elsewhere.
I’ll give you a fun example.
I recently wrote a piece for PLAYERS called “90 Minutes in a Lifetime,” about the culture of football obsession. For context, I know nothing about football. I don’t watch it, I don’t care about it. But I understand fandom — I’m a massive Star Wars fan; there’s a pure silver Yoda in my house, action figures, stationery, and much more. So I understand the impulse to collect and to feel something bigger than yourself through a piece of culture. Similar to football fandom, I also inherited this love for Star Wars through my father.
What I didn’t understand was that football specifically is what makes grown men build their identity around a club like Arsenal. So I got curious about the gap between what I did understand (fandom, collectables, belonging) and what I didn’t (football itself).
I also know that film stars can feel suffocated by their fans, does that happen to football players as well? — that curiosity is what led me to my closing paragraph that said: “There is a reason clubs call their fans “the twelfth man” because the effect is easily measurable. When Bastian Schweinsteiger – former German soccer player and one of the best of his generation – was once asked before a match against Borussia Dortmund whether he feared the opposing players or their coach more, he chose neither and referred to the 25,000 fans standing as a single block behind the goal, saying, “It’s the Yellow Wall I’m most afraid of.””
I built the whole piece on a subject I have zero personal investment in because I was curious about the shape of the obsession, even without personaly caring about its object. And I honestly had so much fun writing it.
In future issues, I will go more in-depth when you should NOT write about topics you do not know about, as it is a very detailed subject. But the skill that you will be able to cherish your whole life as a writer is making your curiosity agile. Not everything will genuinely interest you, and that’s fine. But train yourself to find the entry point through a place that you do understand, so it can bridge you into what you don’t.
Think of curiosity as a stretching exercise — some days you’ll stretch far, some days not so much, but it should always be in motion. And when you do decide to stretch toward something unfamiliar, commit to it fully. That’s what lands the pitch, that’s what makes you a sharper thinker, and that’s what makes you more awake to the world you’re supposedly writing about.
Why does this matter as a beginner and forever in the long run?
You will not always get assignments that flatter your personal taste.
And second, when you pitch to an editor, they can smell, almost immediately, whether you’re someone who will actually dive into an unfamiliar topic and give it weight, or whether you’ll skim the surface and call it a day.
I have always turned down pitches that appear to be empty shower thoughts with no real interest in challenging/exploring your claim.
At the end of the day, your job is to write, and write with real engagement, regardless of whether the subject was your idea of a good time. Don’t assume you can cash-grab knowledge you are sharing with the world, and remember that being a journalist has an ethical and cultural responsibility.
HOMEWORK
No one learns how to swim by reading about swimming. So here are some tasks that you can do (and even I do myself sometimes) to engage with your mind before you start writing. This is actually the first task I assign my interns (before I even select them):
Make a list of three articles you love and three you hate, and tell yourself why.
Not “it’s bad,” not “I loved it.” There must be deeper reasoning, because that’s how you know (and how your editor understands) your baseline — how far you’re willing to travel outside your own taste, how rigorously you can name what pulls you in versus what you’re dismissing on instinct. That’s the actual measure of curiosity — how honestly you can account for why.
👩🏻💻 Current Reads 👩🏻💻
You’ll notice short prompts under each suggestion - try them and see where your answers take you. I do this as standard practice, as it is a great way to explore your mind in relation to existing articles.
No matter how far you are in your career, I will always encourage this practice.
Meet the Guys Trying to Take Camel Racing Global by Andrew Nagy for GQ Middle East
A quote that I liked and found relevant to this issue: “‘You never really ‘finish’ learning in this industry. The moment you think that you’ve got it all figured out is the moment progress stops.”’
PROMPT: How would you cover this story differently? Would you lean more towards ethics? Would you interview more or different people? Would you lean more towards the economics/business side? If it does not interest you — can you explain why and to what degree?
The American Art of Blowing Stuff Up by Paige Williams for The New Yorker
I was intrigued by this given the wild fireworks that happen occasionally in Dubai during national celebrations and New Year’s Eve.
PROMPT: How would you localise a topic as such, and do you think there is a local angle to begin with? Notice how the writer sets the scene and uses current affairs in the U.S. as a backdrop in her intro. Can you lend such reporting and descriptions to different topics of interest?
IMP NOTE — I suggested two pieces instead of three for this issue because both are heavy-duty features (esp. the fireworks story) that are not easy to write. However, if you are a beginner, it is still good to read such pieces and ask yourself the prompts above. I would also consider how I’d cover one aspect of these stories for a 700-900 word piece. What would I focus on, and what would I leave behind?
🗂️ Publications Open to Pitches 🗂️
Rates: Usually close to a $1 per word
Health pitches about emerging science, wellness, exercise, nutrition, sleep, ageing, recovery, and the brain. And surprising findings that change how we think about everyday health.
Email: starlight.williams@natgeo.com
Rates: Usually $220 per 800 words
General publication interests include ambitious, original reporting that explores the intersection of technology, business, science and culture through a Middle Eastern lens. Stories can be reported from anywhere in the world, but they should ultimately tell us something meaningful about the region, its people, industries or future.
Email: dana.alomar@condenast.com
Rates: Undisclosed
They’re commissioning first-person stories for Stylist’s Learn From My Mistakes series that highlights women’s biggest mistakes and what they (and we) can learn from them.
Email: susanne.norris@stylist.co.uk
If you are an editor looking for pitches and would like to be listed here, please reach out and I’ll add to to next week’s issue.
🛎️ SluggDesk™ 🛎️
Dear Glitter&Grime249,
That is a bold and valid question. I think it’s very important that editors take the time to build something with their writers/freelancers.
Cultivating a healthy relationship between editor and writer is a topic I will discuss in more detail in future issues — and, like any relationship, it’s a two-way street with responsibilities for both parties. However, I will break down each point in your question and respond concisely.
Great Freelancers — the definition of what a great freelancer depends on the editors’ and publications’ needs. You might be a great freelancer for an art publication, but not a music publication. And that’s okay - there is no shame in that. But when you are already in communication with an editor, I think it is the editor’s role to inform you whether they find your writing to be suitable for the publication or not.
Fostering Collaborations — Editors’ needs shift and change based on what the publication is currently on the lookout for and the editor’s position. For example, a digital editor would be more open to weekly/monthly contributors in comparison to a features editor. It also depends on the magazine’s structure and masthead. However, again, if you have been in touch with an editor and you feel like they are inconsistent with their communication, my first advice is to acknowledge it and discuss it with them…sometimes, editors are extremely overwhelmed (I’ve been there). And sometimes, they may not be good at managing multiple contributors at once. The truth is that you may never really know what the issue is. But you responsbility is to acknowledge and discuss an issue politely (can I pull you in for a chat?), and if not resolved, you move forward and find other editors.
If you do not have that type of relationship with an editor, and it’s simply an editor that never responded to you, then you leave it be. This is another topic to be discussed in the future — do not harass editors that never respond to you.
Prompt Payments — This isn’t usually the editor’s fault. Unless the editor did not share clear invoice instructions and their payment timelines, it is often a billing issue or some system error if you are dealing with a big company. If you have been in such a predicament, then your editor would/should be able to look into it and/or refer you to the right individual. Other factors also depends if it is an independent publication or not. If it is a pattern that a publication is not paying you, then it is a different legal case.
The average invoicing period is 30 days, with dates varying based on each publication.
Clear Briefs — You cannot control someone’s competence at a job, but you can control who you pitch to. If you feel like there is rarely any clarity between you and the editor, then it is best to move on. I can give you hypothetical advice, or I can be straightforward and tell you how it is. You cannot change people, but you can change your freelance roster.
Not all editors are built the same, so
1) Work with other editors/magazines…there’s plenty of fish in the sea.
2) Do not be the editor you hated when you do end up being an editor.
I hope this answers your questions, and wayyy more to come on this topic. 📂
If you would like to see your questions in next week’s newsletter, please drop me an email at desk@sluggmail.com.
I look forward to your questions!
