A Rebel in the Making

Today, I was reviewing my first post Fiscal Cliff paycheck, complaining to the lovely wife that my net pay was lower due to the payroll tax holiday expiring.

The kiddo was getting bored with my explanation, because it didn't involve Zombies or Superheroes, and asked for a quick summary.

Offspring: Daddy, what are you taking about?

Paracynic:  Daddy got less money in his pay this week.

O: Did you do less work?

P: Nope.

O: then why did you get less money?

P: The government took more of it this week.

O (shaking tiny fist): Curse you, Government!

Coming to terms with being a professional writer.

I just received my first ever legitimate royalty payment for Out of Nowhere. It wasn’t "Change Your Life, Quit the Day Job" money. More like "Here, Go Buy a Week’s Groceries" money, but still nothing to sneeze at.    I had gotten a few “Here, Go Buy a Cup of Coffee” payments from the cheapskates at Quantum Muse, but this was my first payment where calling it three figures didn’t involve counting numbers after the decimal point or converting to Lire.   

This has prompted some soul searching about money and pay and whether or not this makes me a professional. I suppose it does.

Unfortunately, a life spent as a member of the working class has prepared me very badly for a career as a writer.

I’m no stranger to work. I’ve been working for wages since I was 15, and most of my adult life I’ve worked more than full time. A full time job with overtime plus a part time job is something I’ve come to accept, and not find daunting. So why does the idea of working as a writer seem so challenging?  Compared to being a Paramedic or fixing broken water lines in the dead of winter or the Marines it’s not physically demanding, it’s done inside where it’s nice and warm, to be brutally honest the stakes are lower, since I can always rewrite a scene, and there are fewer chances to get fired for threatening a co-worker.

The daunting aspect for me is the gnawing dread  that I might be working for free.

As a lowly wages slave, the one truth you cling to is that if you show up, dressed to work and put in the effort, they have to pay you. If they keep you late, they have to pay you more. It may be hard work, uncomfortable work, and the pay might be lousy, but they have to pay you for the hours you put in.

I’ve never worked on commission, because I just can’t force myself to face the fact that I might put in a full day, and if the fish aren’t biting, I may go home empty handed. If I’m going to be compensated like a hunter-gatherer, I think I should have the dress code and flexible hours of one.

So how does this relate to writing, you ask? How did I force myself to write a novel when I wasn’t on the clock?

Well, writing isn’t work, per se. Writing is release, catharsis. It’s the exorcism of the voices in my head.  It’s a visceral, vital act of creation that can be painful and difficult and exhilarating and triumphant.

It’s also a way to show the universe I’m more than a wage slave.

It’s less a job than it is like a relationship with a crazy girlfriend. It’s effort, and it has ups and downs, and sometimes you wonder why you stick with it, but the good parts are so good you just can’t leave.

So the writing part isn’t really like work.

It’s the rest of it. The editing is a little like work, but that till can be rationalized as the “we need to talk” part of the relationship. It’s hard, but you get through it and don’t expect to be paid.

No the work is the promotion. The synopsis. The query letters. The submissions. The endless hours hunting agents and publishers. And after the books is out and done and ready to buy, it’s the promotion. Begging for reviews, for links, for the opportunity to hawk and flog and pander to sell the results of your labor of love. To grovel to people to accept this copy of your blood sweat toil and tears made solid and please review it honestly.

That’s work.

And that’s where my working class soul starts wondering what the hourly rate is. And since my soul only speaks working class, terms like “building a following” or “generating leads” or “return on investment” all sound like “Nada, bro. You're getting hosed.”

It’s like digging ditches and being paid in scratch tickets. You could win $100,000.00! But you won’t. You’ll wind up with a pocket full of Try Agains and the occasional win will be $5 or a Free Ticket.
                               
So now I’m confronting the need to put in effort for no guarantee of remuneration. It’s a struggle, but I’m taking baby steps.

Like writing blog posts.   

40 Hours? I though you said you work full time.

When I was growing up, my dad worked one full time job.  He had one degree. We had a three bedroom ranch house, two cars, and went on vacations. We lived pretty well. My mom didn’t work until all three kids were in school.  We all had extra activities like art lessons, riding lessons karate, dance, whatever.

I am pretty much right at the median household income in America.  I work 64 hours in an average week. And not at a minimum wage, unskilled job, but as a paramedic and an orthopaedic technologist.  I have two degrees.  We live in a two bedroom ranch house in the same town I grew up in. We drive a ten year old car and a thirteen year old car. We have one child who has activities.

Everyone I work with on the ambulance has a second job. A mere 48 hours at a skilled, demanding, professional job requiring multiple licenses, continuing education and constant recertification doesn’t put us at a median household income.

When attempting to quantify the progress the middle class has made in the last thirty years, the best value I can think of is “fuck all.”