Whenever people introduce themselves at a writers’ conference or fiction workshop, they rarely ask, “What do you do?” They ask, “What do you do for money?” It’s obvious what everyone there does—they write. They’re writers. But because very few writers these days are able to make a living solely from books or magazine articles, they need a day job. One survey determined that it was more difficult to become a successful novelist than a successful ballet dancer (or any other artistic métier, defined by the number of people who aspired to it versus the number of people who actually made it), while another one determined that the average income for writers in the U.S. amounted to about $4000/yr, a figure that had remained unchanged from a similar survey conducted well over a decade ago. Another study determined that your statistical chances of winning the lottery were greater than landing that big book deal.

 

Still, the fantasy of living the life of a successful novelist or artist is so compelling that such facts don’t dampen people’s desire to reach for it. Some artists actually achieve that goal, while the vast majority don’t. Some of the latter never give up the fantasy, some ditch their creative aspirations altogether, and others keep at their craft while finding other ways to support themselves.

 

I’ve chosen the last alternative—not for lack of trying to be one of those precious, successful few. Yet interestingly, at this point in my life, I realize that in a lot of ways, this outcome actually works better for me.

 

I discussed this state of affairs with one of my nephews not long ago. He’s an extremely talented musician and got his start with a band that hit its commercial stride shortly after he joined. They produced a platinum album, appeared on Leno, Letterman, and Barbara Walters. But when their next album came out, their label decided to put their marketing muscle behind another band, and my nephew’s band’s sales figures faltered. All the members cast about for other ways to earn money, and my nephew worked his ass off to find enough music jobs to support himself, which he did, until he found another band to tour with. No mean feat.

 

He told me, though, that he was thinking of going back to school and getting a degree that would enable him to have a day job. But the cachet applied to a working artist of any kind, even if they’re barely making it, is higher than that given to artists who get a day job to support themselves. In our society, money is the yardstick by which the value of absolutely everything is applied. So, if you’re not supporting yourself with your art, the reasoning goes, you’re not a “real” artist.

 

By this criterion, Vincent van Gogh was not a real artist, and Wallace Stevens wasn’t a real poet. It’s complete bullshit, but it is a widely held, unspoken and sometimes even unrecognized belief, a pernicious one for both society and artists.

 

 

I’ve talked to musicians who felt that their creativity was stifled by touring with a band, playing the same songs night after night and spending most of their time either in a motel or hotel room, performing (the same songs every night), or in a touring bus. I’ve talked to artists who show in galleries and feel frustrated that branching out into new and different directions is not all that welcome. For years, I tried to write a commercial novel, trying my hand at a number of different genres—sci fi, thillers, murder mysteries—before finally realizing that, although other authors might enjoy writing these types of books, I didn’t. I actually count myself lucky that none of these found a home, because if I had continued down this path, I’d be in the position of having to churn out books I didn’t really have my heart in. How would that be any different from taking any other job that left me feeling empty and uninspired?

 

Not to mention the fact that if I’d achieved what I thought was my goal, I wouldn’t have put as much effort into my artwork, and I’m having as much fun with that as I am with my writing.

 

 

A few years ago, producers for a short-lived VH1 series asked to film a “documentary-type” segment about my candy obsession, based on a memoir I’d written. A crew of six arrived at my home and proceeded to march me through a series of increasingly absurd scripted “scenes.” Pathetically, I went along with their requests until I was asked to “roll in candy” on my bed, something I’d last done when I was 5 years old.

 

My adorable musician nephew, continuing to ponder his dilemma, sent me this quote from novelist Somerset Maughm (which I’ve excerpted):

 

There is nothing so degrading as the constant anxiety about one’s means of livelihood … Without an adequate income half the possibilities of life are cut off  … You will hear people say that poverty is the best spur to the artist. They have never felt the iron of it in their flesh. They do not know how mean it makes you. It exposes you to endless humiliation, it cuts your wings, it eats into your soul like a cancer. It is not wealth one asks for, but just enough to preserve one’s dignity, to work unhampered, to be generous, frank, and independent. I pity with all my heart the artist, whether he writes or paints, who is entirely dependent for subsistence upon his art.

 

I know that there are plenty of actors, painters, writers, filmmakers, and musicians, etc., who are successful and love their work. But there are more artistic people than there are paying positions for them, the way most societies are organized economically. This should not be a reason for creative people to abandon their gifts, though. It is possible to have a day job and still be an artist. I’ll talk about some strategies along those lines in next Monday’s post. But for now, I’ll end by saying that I think any of us who have a gift that we’ve neglected because we didn’t feel we were a “real” artist or because we can’t make money at it should revisit those beliefs and give them the firm heave-ho that they deserve.