Category: writing life (Page 3 of 17)

I chose this title on purpose because “working writer” could mean a writer who makes her financial living AS a writer (which is probably the most common way we use the term), or it could mean a writer who has to work a different job to pay the bills (I’ll admit, this interpretation is my own invention). There’s the “working writer” and there’s the writer who works (another job).

A recent article in Esquire raised the question of whether it’s ever been harder to make a living as a writer, specifically a writer who writes novels and/or fiction, and the answer, not surprisingly, is that yeah, it’s pretty hard these days. Most fiction writers don’t survive on their book advances or royalties and thus must take to writing for TV or holding down teaching jobs.

As always, these types of articles completely ignore independent publishing and fiction writers who forgo the traditional publishing world. Not that every indie writer makes a living from her writing either, but there are many who do, and they never seem to get much ink spilled about them in these trad-focused think-pieces.

Despite this gaping hole, the article does raise some larger economic and even philosophical questions that I’ve been wrestling with myself for several years. It’s no secret that I quit my day job to become a freelance editor and author, and that the financial precariousness of that situation was something I didn’t find tenable for the short term (and maybe even the long term). It turns out, I happen to like getting a paycheck with regularity, and I like knowing that I can get health insurance without too much trouble either (though currently I’m on my husband’s insurance). I like knowing that I don’t have to write to survive. It takes a lot of pressure off the writing, keeping it fun and light. More play than work.

What struck me was a quote early on in the piece, from an author named Andrew Lipstein, who said, “‘If I’m not just supporting myself by writing, to those who don’t know the reality of it, it seems like it’s a failure in some way.'”

Yup.

See, if someone doesn’t support themselves with their art, then the wider world considers that a “failure.” We must monetize everything, apparently, and when we do, if we’re not making bank on it, then we’re somehow deficient in our talents and our art just isn’t very good. Money equals quality, obvs. If you’re only making coffee money on your art, then you’re a loser. That’s the message from our culture. We get it delivered from our earliest days when adults ask us as children what we “want to be when we grow up.” They mean our job, yo. What are we gonna do to pay the bills, and if we’re lucky, add some value to the world?

And listen, deep in my heart, if I could make a living from my writing, I’m not sure I would turn that down. I wrestle with the desire constantly. For one thing, I wouldn’t have to split myself in two (and three and four) to get all the things done I need and want to get done. Most days I’m split between teacher-self, writer-self, mom-self, wife-self, and human-with-a-body-and-a-house-self. If I could cut out one of those things, teacher-self would be the first on the chopping block. Not because I don’t enjoy teaching (I do at the moment), but because all those other things are non-negotiable. Yes, even writer. Without my art, I would not be whole. And my mom/wife/human self is just Who I Am. So teacher-self is the one optional thing, and thus, in a world in which I’m not worried about money, that would be the one to go.

But writer-self, as the Esquire article points out, is not as viable a way to pay the bills as other professions are. And while the article ignores indie publishing, I’ll say that even for indie authors, the vast majority of us don’t pay our bills with our writing either. So in that way, the article is right in the broad sense that writing fiction for a “living” is a hard row to hoe.

Still, the article’s obvious bias in favor of traditional publishing, and literary fiction in particular, obscures what could have been a much more nuanced and multilayered picture of what a “job” in writing fiction could and does mean in our current situation. It ignores pulp writers, and it ignores people who write and publish online at places like Substack or Royal Road. I don’t know all the ins and outs of such a picture and would’ve been curious to find out more. I’d like to know who exactly is making money from their fiction and how, and not just the MFA people who write for Hollywood, because that job is about as unlikely to me and the average fiction writer as is becoming the next George R.R. Martin.

What I hoped to learn from the piece was how ALL the myriad types of writers are trying to make ends meet and how the internet might be an asset or a hinderance (or at least a newer paradigm that shakes up the old world of publishing). We did get a bit about AI, and I have to say, AI flooding the market with books does concern me, even if those books right now aren’t very good (or violate copyright). And I appreciated the point about the Authors Guild not being able to collectively bargain. The fact that authors can’t unionize is shitty, and it just goes to show how our laws often make things harder for writers and artists to make a living with their work. The question of health insurance is another roadblock.

Still, I keep thinking about this idea of success being tied to income, and how my writing is only successful if I can monetize it and make a “living.” This is the mark of achievement. Any intrinsic value I might place on my art is meaningless in this framework, and if I can’t “cut it” as a working writer, then I’ve failed. That sense of failure lingers with me even as I’ve happily returned to teaching. Despite my happy return to the classroom, I still harbor dreams of making all my money from my books, and yet I continue to wonder if those dreams are coming from my heart or from what I’ve been socialized and conditioned to desire. Would I really be happier if I was a “working writer” as opposed to a writer who works?

The question is hard to disentangle from how we think about work and art and money. The fact that it’s so hard to “make it” as an artist says something about what our society values, and I’m afraid that message isn’t very comforting to those of us who want to make art.

I went back to teaching last month. Not an easy decision, but a necessary one.

Perhaps.

I made the decision out of fear, and I’m not ashamed by it. Money is necessary to live in our world, I have children, and the uncertainty of freelance work was giving me crippling anxiety. When I switched to being a freelancer last year, I thought I could handle the ups and downs, the lean months and the flush months.

Reader, I could not.

I was anxious almost from the word go, but then I got a few clients and things seemed good. Then I got no clients, and things seemed bad. Then a client again, but not much money. Then no clients. I watched as my savings drained from my account like a torrent of thunderstorm rain.

I was very, very bad at this uncertainty stuff, at this hustling business. I am not a hustler, it turns out. I’m a writer, but I’m not necessarily an entrepreneur. Being a freelance editor was not a good fit for me. Frankly, being a freelance anything seems to be a bad fit. I like the security of a paycheck, a regular, twice-a-month, I-know-what-I’m-getting paycheck, and if that makes me a soft, squishy coward, then so be it. I like knowing I can pay my bills and buy groceries and save up for my children’s future.

There’s a big push in our culture to equate making money with worth. The goal is to make a living from my writing, right? That’s how you know you’ve achieved success, right? That’s the dream everyone is always talking about. Do what you love for a living and you’ll never work a day in your life, or some such bullshit.

But doing what you love for a living, in my experience, at least if that thing is creative work, is a double-edged sword. It means putting a burden on your art: it must feed you; it must support your kids. That’s a heavy burden, and I found myself questioning my earlier desires. Maybe if I was suddenly making five or six figures with my writing, I’d be singing a different tune. I may yet sing a different tune, I don’t know.

But I do know that even the thought of relying on my writing for my family’s survival is an unpleasant thought. I once considered it a glorious thought, but then I saw what the uncertainty of being my own boss wrought, and I noped right out of that situation. It’s too much pressure. It takes the fun of writing and makes it into a J-O-B, and I don’t want my writing to be a J-O-B. I want to be disciplined and write everyday and treat it seriously, but I don’t want it to be a job. A job is what you do for money so you can survive.

I survive in order to write; I don’t want to write in order to survive.

Having a day job that isn’t my writing (or editing) means I can stop worrying about paying the mortgage and let my art be my art. I can write with total freedom, no pressure. I can simply enjoy myself, because writing is supposed to be fun, and it IS fun when I’m doing it for pure joy and not for money.

I want people to read my stuff, of course. For any artist, there is that element of wanting to connect and communicate, which is why we make stuff in the first place and don’t just leave it all in our heads, so I don’t mind selling my books. In this world, people rarely value things if they get them for free. But if I sell them or don’t sell them, it won’t matter. The fun part is the writing.

And in my work as a teacher, I get to do two things I love doing: reading and writing. (And a third thing, which is working with young people, who are very funny and energetic and much more fun to work with than adults.) I get to read books in order to teach them to students, and also in order to learn and improve my teaching. And I write in front of my students and alongside them in order to model the process and techniques of good writing. Do I wish I didn’t have to devote so much time to my day job? Yes. A thousand times yes. But it’s a necessary evil. It gives me the security I need in order to be wild and free in my art. It relieves the burden.

The key to any day job for the artist, I think, is to find one that doesn’t drain you and leaves enough time and energy for you to make your art. For the last several years, prior to my attempts at freelance editing, I thought teaching was too draining. I never had time for my art. I thought if I switched to being my own boss, I could give myself more time for writing. And it was true, I DID have more time for writing. I just didn’t have much money. And not having money made it hard to use that time for writing. Crippling anxiety ensued, and do you know what crippling anxiety does to your energy? Drains you. Dries you up.

I’m not sure if I’ve solved the puzzle of how to be a teacher and not let it drain me, but I’m trying. I’ve set ground rules for myself to keep teaching in its proper balance both time-wise and emotionally. I’ve become even more disciplined in my art, making sure I get up early every morning and write. I’ve stopped setting too-ambitious goals for my art, focusing instead on daily habits. I think what caused my burnout earlier as a teacher is that I saw teaching as opposition to my writing. If only I wasn’t teaching, why then I could write five novels a year!

Maybe I could. In fact, based on some of my output this past summer, I could do it. In the month of July I wrote about 50,000 words. I could probably maintain that pace (or greater) if all I had to do all day was write. But even if I did write five novels a year, how do I feed my children in the five years it would take to write twenty-five novels? Where does the money come from while I’m trying to reach my twenty books to 50K?

It comes from a day job, that’s where. And I’m not ashamed to say it. I used to be ashamed. After all, isn’t the goal to be one’s own boss? Isn’t the goal to make a “living” with your art?

But what if that isn’t the goal? What if the goal is something else, something that doesn’t require putting a burden on my art? Maybe the goal is to make the art. Full stop. Make the art. Let the day job pay the bills. Let the imagination and the heart and the joy make the art.

There’s no shame in having a day job. Too often, we tell artists that they haven’t achieved success unless they are making a living from their art, but that’s Capitalism talking, not the truth. The truth is, making art IS the success. It’s the creative act that counts, not the bank account.

And one further note: Since returning to teaching and getting a regular paycheck, I now have some disposable income I can put towards supporting the artists I couldn’t support before when I was barely scraping by and watching every penny fly out the window like a frightened bird. Now I can buy digital and vinyl albums of my favorite bands on Bandcamp. Now I can support more writers on Substack. Now I can buy more books from indie authors. There’s something to be said for having a little cash in one’s pocket just for fun. Now I can give back and make life a little easier for my fellow artists. That’s worth a lot. It’s worth going back to the old 9-to-5 (or in my case, 8-to-3).