Reviewing Mary Gaitskill’s essay collection Somebody With a Little Hammer in The New York Times a few years ago, Dwight Garner mentioned with astonishment that the author may not have been paid for some of her work because it was originally published in literary journals. He was admiring, as if this was a rare thing. “There’s an appealing sense that she composed these essays because she wanted to, not because a payday was on offer,” Garner writes.
Of course, it is a rarer occasion for most writers to be paid. It is not so secret that there are more writers who don’t get paid than do. This is a reality that writers usually won’t acknowledge because they don’t want to be identified as a writer who isn’t paid—as if this is a stigma. I frequently see a Twitter post with this question: “How much money have you made from a piece of writing?” which elicits a variety of answers from zero to a few hundred dollars. I can guarantee most of those dollars would be spread thin against the amount of time put in on crafting that piece of writing.
Aaron Gilbreath, in his terrific essay “Getting Paid” in Poets & Writers, says, “It’s a privilege to be able to write without compensation.” Meaning, you should feel lucky you are able to write what you want.
The resounding reply from those that do get paid is, “You shouldn’t work for free.” That’s always been a nice idea, but if you want to get work published, there is no guarantee of a pay day. And, is it really working for free when you love the work and will do it anyway?
And yet, it is great to receive compensation, too.
I have received money for my creative writing, and though I was pleased about it, it’s fair to say that the work on these pieces far exceeded what I was paid for them, though they were great credits to add to my list of publications.
Perhaps ninety-nine percent of what I write is because I want to write it. Still, I’ve tried over the years to land paying gigs. A writing job I once had paid me $500 for what amounted to a couple hundred words of career advice in bullet points. I received this request because I had written several job-related essays for the San Francisco Chronicle. The gig eventually fell into that one percent of what I did not want to write (and did not quite feel like writing). As well, they only gave me one assignment per month. You might think, great little supplemental gig. So did I. Though I came to dread and resent it.
On the other hand, if I have an expectation that I am working for money on writing that is personal and intrinsically motivated, I might feel like I am somehow cheating the muse. Granted, I’ve never refused payment for my work, but I don’t think it’s a priority. Other than this outlet (which I have not yet monetized), I haven’t pursued outside publication in over six months. Yet I’m still working on multiple pieces of writing at any time. And, I have a day job completely unrelated to writing.
Many writers aspire to become professors of creative writing: it’s a job, and they’re paid to at least be connected to the world of letters, whether or not actually getting to work on their own writing. Some say it is rewarding, and I’m sure it is, to a point. But how distracting and potentially dispiriting might it become to slog through the variably motivated writing of students?
When someone pays you to write, barring your own pitch, it is likely not the project you might choose to write. This may be the dilemma for the relatively small number of well-paid authors. Maybe it prevents them from attempting to write beyond what is expected—because no one is calling for it. And thus, until a publication calls on them, they may not have any incentive to write.
Perhaps an entitlement mentality comes in: What reason do I have to write unless someone is paying me? A novelist has a book out and several years go by. We often don’t hear a lot from writers who are between books. Maybe this is even more true for the author with an astounding breakout success. They are only thinking about the next book. Of course, they are trying to publish those stories so that they can put a collection together with some track record of publication.
I checked out the publication list of a writer who had a book out several years ago—a relatively well published writer who would probably be considered trying to make a living at it, a first book—and saw that she had published three to four articles a year. Because of the caliber of magazines where her work appeared, I’m certain she was paid, and she also probably received an advance for the book. Does this approach just become a cost / benefit analysis, where if one spends more time on four long pieces to get them into paid venues, they will come out on top? Still, I have not seen anything from this writer in over six years.
Perhaps an entitlement mentality comes in: What reason do I have to write unless someone is paying me?
There are those writers who may have reached a pinnacle of success. Maybe they give up writing to become show runners, like Pulitzer Prize winning novelist Michael Chabon. Though I’m not sure he has given up writing, Chabon has certainly found a far more remunerative career.
Of course, obviously I am thinking about the possibility of making money from writing, but it never really gets in the way of writing. I write what I want, submit it, and wait for a journal to take it (if they do; I have many orphans). Sometimes there is money, most often, not.
Writing a novel can take years, a project that may not ever see the light of day. But I work on a novel, set it aside, write a review, or an essay, or a story. I have accepted my slow and steady path. I haven’t quit yet. For all of my occasional frustrations, I’m not entirely convinced I’d be happier with writing another way.
In fact, I have taken up poetry in the last few years. I suppose I can think I am being more pure of motive in writing poetry, writing because the work calls to me, when it does. It’s then that I remind myself: I’m going to write no matter what.