I just write what I wanted to write. I write what amuses me. It’s totally for myself.
- J.K. Rowling
I liked, as I like still, to make words look self-conscious and foolish, to bind them by mock marriage of a pun, to turn them inside out, to come upon them unawares. What is this jest in majesty? This ass in passion? How do god and devil combine to form a live dog?
- Vladimir Nabokov,
It can be frustrating at times. I live with a nurse practitioner who, to the untrained eye, could be seen as living a charmed life. She makes enough money to put herself in the top 5% of all earners. She’s never known a day’s unemployment, and even if she were to lose her job (which is about as likely as me announcing I’ve had a long-term illicit relationship with Bryan Fischer), her joblessness could probably be measured in minutes. It would be easy to be jealous of her success, but she’s worked hard to get where she is and deserves everything she has. She’s one of a very few people fortunate enough to be able to do what they love AND be fabulously well-paid for it.
I raise this because it could be argued that I’m at the opposite end of the spectrum. My passion is writing, which happens to be a crummy way to make a living. An exhaustive survey a few years ago showed that writing was fifth from the bottom in average annual compensation. Yeah, I’m familiar with the phrase, “starving artist”- figuratively speaking. I’m in no dangerous of actually starving, but I’ve been every bit as unsuccessful as my partner’s been successful (if success can be measured purely in monetary terms).
If you want to talk about low wage workers, you might as well include writers in the conversation…because it turns out we’re a dime a dozen. If that.
A few years ago, I was contacted by both the Los Angeles Times and Washington Post. Each paper expressed an interest in me blogging for their website. There was just one problem, though- they couldn’t (or weren’t willing to) pay me for any content I provided. Oh, and anything I wrote for them would be their exclusive property. Yep, not only would I not be paid, I wouldn’t own anything I wrote. (Didn’t slavery end with the Emacipation Proclamation?) Both papers assumed I’d be happy to have the “exposure” and thus would write for nothing…as if I don’t have to worry about mundane things like paying bills.
Therein lies the problem with the writing market today. The market is glutted with those who call themselves “writers” and believe they can string together complete sentences. Few actually can, of course, but the problem this creates is that it drives down the prices media outlets are willing to pay for content. I politely declined the offers, such as they were, because while I could have used the exposure, I wasn’t willing to work for nothing. Would you do your job for nothing, knowing that your employer was a successful concern profiting at least in part off the work you and others like you do for them? I think not…yet that’s exactly what most media outlets expect writers to do. They know that if one writer refuses to work “for the exposure,” they can find someone else who’ll jump at the chance to provide content on a volunteer basis.
Why pay for content when there are those ready, willing, and able to do it for free? There’s been a lot of attention (justifiably) devoted to how companies exploit interns as unpaid labor, but no one seems to recognize or care that the same thing is happening to writers and has been for years. For every Steven King, Tom Clancy or Barbara Cartland, there’s an untold number of anonymous writers like myself looking, hoping, and praying for a break. Most of us will never be able to make anything close to a living off our writing. For most of my compatriots, life is not about book tours and best seller lists. It’s about trying to survive financially while chasing a dream- a dream that can feel like a mechanical rabbit at a dog track.
I know the odds aren’t in my favor. I may never be able to fully devote myself to my writing, secure in the knowledge that the royalty checks will continue rolling in. Such is the nature of pursuing any artistic endeavor; you set off on the journey uncertain if your destination even exists. I may end up being one of those frustrated writers who spend their career working jobs that pay the bills but leaves the soul unfed and undernourished. That’s not a bungled attempt to bemoan my fate; that’s simply an honestly looking at the odds I face.
Hey, it’s not like I’m going to be able to sleep my way to the top….
In the meantime, writers will continue to be exploited by a marketplace spoiled by the knowledge that they really can get something for nothing. What’s truly sad about this is that writers are the ones who continue to tolerate this state of affairs. So many assume that “exposure” will be their ticket to fame and fortune. By falling for that delusion, they perpetuate their own exploitation even as they condemn other writers to the same fate.
A few years ago, I read an article by a writer who was actually able to support himself with his writing. His argument, which I’ll paraphrase because I don’t remember it verbatim, went something like this:
If you call yourself a writer and you’re providing content “for the exposure,” then f—k you, because YOU are the problem. Not only are you contributing to your own exploitation, you’re adversely impacting my ability to support myself and my family. Your caving to those willing to pay only in “exposure” depresses the market, making it that much more difficult for me to be fairly paid for the work I produce.
If this sort of thing existed in a non-artistic field, the hue and cry would be heard far and wide. How DARE they exploit workers?? But I’m a writer, so no one cares- because how many Americans even read anymore?
The movement for a living minimum wage is certainly good and much needed. Unfortunately, it completely ignores an entire segment of the working class- those of us who harbor the dream of making a living as a writer or in really any sort of artistic endeavor.
Truth be told, even if the marketplace didn’t suck so thoroughly and completely, I’d still be hunched over my keyboard trying to string together complete sentences. Sure, the dream lives on. I’d love to be able to support myself with my writing, but the nature of any artistic endeavor is living with the knowledge that your undeniable brilliance may forever go unrecognized. I’ll continue to be a legend in my own mind- a modern-day Ernest Hemingway minus the shotgun- and I’ll continue to hope that my “big break” will come.
Someday. Soon. Hopefully. Maybe.
