Several earlier conversations here and elsewhere prompt me to say what no writer is ever supposed to say: I do it for money. Just for money? No. There are a lot of other sort of side benefits. Theres the actual fun of playing with words. Theres the weirdly humbling yet simultaneously ego-boosting thing of having fans. Theres the challenge of doing something difficult. Theres competitiveness. And with me, in particular, given where I came from, theres a satisfaction that comes from being able to say that I made it despite the lack of education, despite the trouble I got into, despite the fact that I never even tried until I was in my 30s. Its the poor-kid-up-from-nothing chip-on-my-shoulder thing thats not exactly admirable and is really rather small-minded, but, full-disclosure, is there nonetheless. So all of that is true. Its also true that Id probably write something, a little, here and there, even if I wasnt getting paid. But I find I need an organizing principle. It works better if its a single, clarifying metric rather than a half dozen amorphous feelings. So for me that organizing, clarifying thing is money. Money is real. Money gets me stuff. Money lets me be free. I like money. But Oh MY God youre never supposed to say that. Never! Youre supposed to talk about anything but money. And yet. Get two writers together, pour them a drink, and what do they talk about? Deals. Money. Theres a simple reason for this: if you arent making enough writing then you have to do something else. If youre doing something else, youre doing less writing. Which brings me back to my clarifying principle: money. More writing = More Money. But its equally true that More Money = More Writing. See how they go together? So why are writers never supposed to talk about money in public? A big reason is because back in the day the better class of folk - your landed gentry, your petit nobles, your squires, your gentlemen - were supposed to live off the estates their great-grandfathers either stole from someone else, or obtained by kissing the ass of the king (who stole the estate from someone else.) They were not supposed to engage in trade. They were not to have jobs. See: Downton Abbey where anyone who works is below anyone whose sole occupation is dressing for dinner. Its a snob thing. If I admit I work for money, Im Mr. Bates. Or even Thomas. If I deny I work for money then maybe I can be the eccentric third cousin, Lord Poobah, who is tolerated despite having only a single servant and an estate in Ireland. Writers dont want to be Mr. Bates, they want to be Lord Poobah. We want respect, dammit. We want the common herd to recognize us as gentlemen and ladies, not as servants. We want to be special. And really, arent we special? Arent we just ever-so-special? Because. . . um. . . hmmm. Lets see if we can come up with a reason that Im gentlefolk and my plumber is beneath me. See, Im a creative and inspired and doing important work whereas my plumber, poor bastard, is just doing a job. See what an asshole I sound like? And thats why I will talk openly about money, and I dont talk about my calling or talk about having a mission or prattle on about how I have to open a vein and bleed onto the page. Because Im not above the plumber and I dont want to pretend to be. Im not one kind of human being while hes another. I have some things I know how to do, and hes got some things he knows how to do, and we both work because thats what people have to do if they want a home and a family. So, as you can see, that defensive/belligerent poor-kid chip is still on my shoulder. Id still rather hang out with Mr. Bates than Lord Grantham. Bates and I could talk. Id sooner or later just haul off and smack Grantham. I mean, goddamn dude: get a job.
Posted on: Sun, 19 Jan 2014 20:17:19 +0000
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