Writing for money is a fool’s errand. True, a fortunate few hit the jackpot, but for the vast majority, scribbling is hardscrabble farming, back-breaking work to eke a starvation wage. Almost any other profession is more profitable, even acting. What parent wishes their kid to be writer! Yet legions select this unpromising career with reckless enthusiasm, dreaming they’ll be the lucky exception.
This is observation, not complaint. I want to contribute my words to the commonweal gratis. My self-styled generosity makes me feel a benefactor. That I do not depend on my readers for my livelihood frees me to irk. If all my readers decamped, I’d be sad – frantic – but I’d still eat.
Our world is flooded with words. The Internet compounds the calamity by making publishing seem inexpensive. Gosh, you can populate a Facebook page or Substack site for free – free, that is, if you value your time at zero. Nearly everybody these days brandishes a public presence, at least until they abandon the attempt as too much work. How many of us have purchased domain names we never used!
For more than a few, the allure of attention is addictive. From toddlerdom we’ve been straining to capture adults’ notice and/or a heart-throb’s regard. All artists are showoffs, by definition, restive in their obscurity. The need to speak typically precedes one’s topic. I ache to write – now, what about?
I used to long to be a bestselling author. Oh, for the glory – and movie rights! Problem was, I loathed most bestsellers, couldn’t force myself to slog through their soggy prose. The reading I favor is esoteric, unpopular, tedious to most. Fans of Montaigne and Dr. Johnson could hold their annual convention in a phone booth (remember them?). I’d give my eye-teeth (a.k.a., cuspids) to be either of those paragons; but for the one it was a rich guy’s hobby, for the other dreadful drudgery. “The life of a writer,” groaned the good doctor, “is a life of labor. He must be content to hear himself hissed without a rival, and to toil on, while others repose.” Three of my favorite writers – George Herbert, Thoreau and Emily Dickinson – wrote with few, if any, readers while they lived. I scribble reams in private, but if I had no readers anywhere would I persist? That’s an experiment I’d prefer to defer.
Many writers get stuck writing because they don’t want to do anything else. I’m one of those. If I didn’t write I’d – I don’t know – and don’t want to think. The few times my words balked I contemplated killing myself. Having afflicted you with more than a few love-letters to literature, I’m looking forward to more – and more – because – who knows why! It’s a sickness, truly, a helpless dependence, but innocuous (mostly).
The trick to a jolly writing life is never to covet success. Think of writing as prayer or sport, something you do to feel good. It’s your “thing,” not your job. If you make a living at it, thank your stars, but don’t count on it. Depend on your pen for your paycheck and you’ll resent the measly return. Why didn’t I opt for investment banking!
Substack, which brings you these words, boasts of seventeen thousand authors making money using their services. For most, streetcorner begging would be more lucrative and less arduous. Write for love and your love may last. Revel in a big readership if you garner one but never torment yourself with hope.
“Writing,” said Voltaire, “is the occupation of the outcast. He who can do nothing else, writes.”