On Making Money

I think we all pretty much have a dream that we're going to become J.-K.-Rowling-wealthy from writing, and then fill our jacuzzis with champagne and underwear models, while using the cash that isn't currently piled up as a makeshift ottoman to undermine the democratic uprisings in whatever country makes our favorite fruit so that our smoothies never get too expensive. Or somesuch like that. Something so wild we can immediately recognize it as a fantasy that we probably ought to keep to ourselves.

And then there's the dream that one might actually be able to support oneself with fiction writing.

I know everyone in the world can point to someone (someone they believe to not even be particularly talented) who has, without what looks like any terrible effort, ascended the sales charts and done quite well for themselves financially. But for each one of those infamous hacks, you can wave your hand across the dark sea of anonymity and the storms above will illuminate the pale and tragic faces of hundreds, possibly thousands of people who've written more than a dozen fairly decent novels and not sold a single one, as well as the hordes of people, huddling in lifeboats of overburdened metaphor, who have sold those dozen novels, but still need to continue as teachers and clerical workers to make ends meet.

Some time ago, I made a decision that I sometimes regret; though on the whole I think it was the right one. That is: I'm not even going to try to write for a living. On the one hand, it does mean I can be more choosy in terms not only of what I write, but of what I submit and where. It shifts my priorities. Since cash is not particularly among them (not that it wouldn't be nice, mind you), the two things I tend to aim for are my own enjoyment and a certain amount of prestige. I tend to feel like if something I've written isn't good enough to perform competitively in a pro market (or a market that I know publishes stories and authors I enjoy), then it simply isn't good enough.

On the other hand, I don't have as much riding on this as someone who needs to succeed financially as well as emotionally. I'm free to be something of a dilettante, and I can't say it does wonders for my discipline. I do sometimes wonder what I would have accomplished if my priorities had been different, and I had believed (rightly or wrongly) enough in my ability to make a living doing this that I had been willing to put all my chips down on it.

Then again, on what is perhaps a grotesque third hand, I'm able to pay rent and eat food originally intended for human consumption, which would not be a guarantee if I were surviving entirely on the fruits of my pen.

The funny thing is, I think if I were to have the option of someone who would work to support me while I tried to write professionally (say, a spouse, or one of those horrible sounding men who posts on craigslist promising to pay your rent or tuition if you'll just let him put his hands on you), I can't say I would do it. Even if the other person could afford it, I'm not sure I could in good conscience let them work all day while I played, and I would, I think, feel this terrible guilt that what I was doing was probably not living up to the money they were putting into it. (Some male friends of mine have commented that in the case of a spouse, I would also be having sex with them, so it evens out, which makes it so much worse, because in that scenario I'd feel I was both a hack and a prostitute.)

I may at some point reevaluate, but there it is for the moment. Not writing for money- not out of nobility, just out of morbid pragmatism.