It has been hammered into me, since the day I became a freelancer, to sell, sell, sell. To not become one of those “artists” who talk a lot about creativity and authenticity and don’t think about the bottom line.
I don’t know how I feel about that.
Bottom line isn’t a bad thing. We all feel the need to eat good food regularly, move up in the world, afford a luxury or two, and maybe even have a standard of living that we like or have aspired to. When Sam and I first moved into the last house we lived in, which was large and spacious and wonderful, I spent months feeling guilty, as if I didn’t deserve it, as if we hadn’t worked hard enough. I felt the need to explain myself to anyone who walked through the door– “Oh, it’s too big for us, we need to move, we didn’t have enough time to look so we got this, blah blah blah.”
But you know what? I’ve lived in hovels. For a few years, I lived in homes that were situated on terraces of buildings where you had to get up from the room and walk across an entire rooftop in the bitter cold, a warm blanket wrapped around you, just to get to the bathroom. I slept with a knife under my pillow because there were times I was so scared (and for good reason– I had two intruders in as many months). Let alone an office, I didn’t even have a desk. There was no space in my one-room terrace-home for anything more than a bed. So I sat on my bed and wrote. And it wasn’t romantic, it was terrible. I had moved out of my parents’ home to prove that I could “make it on my own” and I wasn’t doing a great job of it and it wasn’t scratching the creative itch and I was making no money.
If anything, it was stressful and soul-crushing and not at all conducive to writing. And contrary to popular belief, you get absolutely no respect from fellow writers, just saintly advice to get a job.
I’m glad I did it and there were many fun and wonderful moments that I treasure but I no longer want to live like that. Not only have the dues been paid but I’m a lot more creative, I find, when I’m not constantly worrying about survival. Shocking, I know.
So I get it. Bottom line is important. Writers need to understand this. Because when you’re young and inexperienced, what’s most likely is that after you’ve lived your romantic life of poverty and independence and completed that inspired-from-personal-events novel, all that’s left to do is throw that piece of crap in the trash and send out some article pitches to magazine and newspaper editors. And once in a while you’ll eat something other than ramen noodles and sometimes you’ll even have enough left over to go partying, save for a trip abroad or buy yourself something pretty. And slowly and carefully, you’ll learn to figure out your bottom line and learn to start saying no to projects that don’t bring in the money. Because that’s an important part of what you do. Money is important, let’s not feel bad for saying that. I no longer feel guilty for saying no to projects that promise me returns in the future without considering that I need to be fed in the present.
But before I convince you to throw out your well-worn copy of “The Artist’s Way,” here’s what else I have to say:
Artist isn’t a bad word either.
Because if writing were just another job, you wouldn’t be doing it. There are a lot easier ways to make an income, even with words, like working at a magazine or newspaper, for one. But whether you adore literature or enjoy self-help nonfiction, there’s a certain part of you that rebels against being just another office worker. With a constant focus on income, spreadsheets, queries, goals and whatnot, we tend to kill that part of ourselves. The idea of playing with words is so foreign to some writers I know that they can’t imagine doing a personal project that hasn’t been assigned by someone. “But who’s going to pay for that time I’ve spent writing it?” they’ll say.
I just wrote a short story, my first in almost twenty years, and submitted it to a contest with a £2,000 prize. If I win that will be an hour very well spent. If I don’t, the more likely result, it will be an hour wasted. Or will it?
I’m currently writing a novel. No one’s paying for this time, in fact I’m taking time off from regular paying work to do it, but it’s the most fun I’ve had with words in a long long time. I feel like I’m achieving something. Maybe not financially, maybe not even in terms of contributing to the world, but in an entirely selfish way, I’m contributing to my own well-being. What could possibly be wrong with that?
I’m not a spiritually-minded person. Put me through a horrific break-up and sure, I’ll start spouting lines from Louise Hay’s “You Can Heal Your Life” but in my everyday life, when I’m feeling happy and sane, I don’t buy any of it. I’m simply not the meditating artiste type.
I light incense in the morning not because I’m praying to some mythical muse or lighting up my creative space but because I have a puppy who farts a lot. I light a candle on the side of the room because I love watching the flame as it burns. I always did love playing with fire.
But artiste stuff aside, I do believe in our inherent creativity, the need to have the space and opportunity for expression. I think writers need to be childlike in allowing ourselves to play with words without the pressure of word counts and deadlines and pay rates.
I believe that the work that most appeals to us, that we most enjoy doing, and that is the best of us, comes when we’re free from other people’s demands, when we allow ourselves to explore random ideas. It’s why so many journalists want to write essays and short stories and novels. We’re so tired of writing for someone else that we think that by writing a novel or an essay or a play, we can, just for once, write for ourselves.
My personal belief is that someone who aims to be a New York Times bestselling author is just as much as an artist as someone who wants to be a Booker winner and that someone who creates simply because she’s moved to do it isn’t necessarily someone who wants to be obscure and look down on the masses.
Money and creative freedom never have been, and shouldn’t be, at odds with each other.
Art can be a business, it can also be very personal. Why must we always feel the need to pick one over the other?