As I said in an earlier post, it's my intention to write a bl-g entry about every category in the drop-down menu. Today it's money, because that's one of the topics that least interests me -- right alongside "war," "politics" and "pictures of me." And I've got to admit that money has been too large a figure in my daily life for too long -- not the joy of having it, but the irrational fear of running out of it. Worrying about money is like worrying about Godzilla, only money is greener and more destructive.
I've supported myself solely as a writer for the past 15 years, the last three as a freelancer. The money has never been incredible, but it has been mostly good and I've had some years when it's been great. I should be particularly proud of these past two-plus years after I got laid off from my newspaper gig; I never thought I had it in me to support myself solely on freelance work, but here I am: the electricity is on, the cats are fed, and I'm wearing pants. If there's another way to measure financial success, I don't know it.
The thing that bothers me is the pieces I've lost in the rush to commerce. I mean "pieces" in the way you'd expect -- have definitely lost pieces of myself; I'm less relaxed, less happy-go-lucky than when I was reviewing concerts and drinking my dinner -- but I'm also thinking of the other kind of pieces: the kind I used to write strictly for myself. Fiction, prose, (bad) poetry, autobiographical stories -- the kind of stuff I used to read in front of people, or simply keep squirreled away in Moleskine notebooks. I haven't written a non-paycheck piece in a long, long time, and I fear those muscles have begun to atrophy. I've become an Art-O-Mat.
A writer friend of mine once said "As long as I keep writing -- as long as I keep doing the thing I was put on this planet to do -- I'll be all right. I won't always be comfortable, but in the end, I'll come out of the bad places and keep going." I haven't spoken to him in years, so I've no idea what he'd make of my current, conflicted state. He'd probably say something to the effect of "write something, man, just do it," or he'd tell me to shut the fuck up and take the money; it's not everyone who supports themselves doing the thing they love. And I'd tell him what I've been reluctant to admit to myself: that I'm afraid of losing the thing that made people want to pay me in the first fucking place. Writing isn't NASCAR; it's demolition derby. You gain insights and precognition through accidents, not through cruising a never-ending loop with a bunch of corporate hillbillies. I should wake up every morning willing to fail, because that's how you get good at things. Instead, I' have allowed myself to be regulated by deadlines and the worry that a client won't like the language I've used.
But that's quite enough of that. One of my favorite Emerson quotations is "Doubt not, o poet, but persist" -- and I've always striven to hold true to that, even though I'm a lousy poet (only ever wrote the stuff to impress girls in coffeehouses). It's not about poetry, anyway; it's about consistency. Doin' what ya do 'cos it's gotta be done. There may be a good piece in that -- but I've no time to write it today. I have a deadline at noon.
I've supported myself solely as a writer for the past 15 years, the last three as a freelancer. The money has never been incredible, but it has been mostly good and I've had some years when it's been great. I should be particularly proud of these past two-plus years after I got laid off from my newspaper gig; I never thought I had it in me to support myself solely on freelance work, but here I am: the electricity is on, the cats are fed, and I'm wearing pants. If there's another way to measure financial success, I don't know it.
The thing that bothers me is the pieces I've lost in the rush to commerce. I mean "pieces" in the way you'd expect -- have definitely lost pieces of myself; I'm less relaxed, less happy-go-lucky than when I was reviewing concerts and drinking my dinner -- but I'm also thinking of the other kind of pieces: the kind I used to write strictly for myself. Fiction, prose, (bad) poetry, autobiographical stories -- the kind of stuff I used to read in front of people, or simply keep squirreled away in Moleskine notebooks. I haven't written a non-paycheck piece in a long, long time, and I fear those muscles have begun to atrophy. I've become an Art-O-Mat.
A writer friend of mine once said "As long as I keep writing -- as long as I keep doing the thing I was put on this planet to do -- I'll be all right. I won't always be comfortable, but in the end, I'll come out of the bad places and keep going." I haven't spoken to him in years, so I've no idea what he'd make of my current, conflicted state. He'd probably say something to the effect of "write something, man, just do it," or he'd tell me to shut the fuck up and take the money; it's not everyone who supports themselves doing the thing they love. And I'd tell him what I've been reluctant to admit to myself: that I'm afraid of losing the thing that made people want to pay me in the first fucking place. Writing isn't NASCAR; it's demolition derby. You gain insights and precognition through accidents, not through cruising a never-ending loop with a bunch of corporate hillbillies. I should wake up every morning willing to fail, because that's how you get good at things. Instead, I' have allowed myself to be regulated by deadlines and the worry that a client won't like the language I've used.
But that's quite enough of that. One of my favorite Emerson quotations is "Doubt not, o poet, but persist" -- and I've always striven to hold true to that, even though I'm a lousy poet (only ever wrote the stuff to impress girls in coffeehouses). It's not about poetry, anyway; it's about consistency. Doin' what ya do 'cos it's gotta be done. There may be a good piece in that -- but I've no time to write it today. I have a deadline at noon.
phacet:
You just wrote 5 paragraphs for yourself, me and any SG Member that cares to read what you have written ... for free. Nice