The Real World of a Working Writer

I prefer that term, working writer, to professional writer.  In asking myself why that's so, I went searching for a definition of the word professional and came up with this one from Reference.com.  Here it is in part:  "In western nations, such as the United States, the term [professional] commonly describes highly educated, mostly salaried workers, who enjoy considerable work autonomy, economic security, a comfortable salary, and are commonly engaged in creative and intellectually challenging work."

Parts of that definition certainly applies to publishing writers, but "economic security, a comfortable salary"? 

One of the questions students always ask writers visiting in schools is "How much money do you make?"  (It's what the teachers want to know, too, but they don't ask.)  To answer I'd hold up a book and ask, "Each time a copy of this book sells, how much do you think I earn?"   Most students--and often the teachers--find the royalty percentages shocking.  Estimates are usually far above the standard ten percent or the five percent for picture books or the two or three percent for paperbacks.

And that doesn't even take into consideration the lack of benefits such as health insurance and 401Ks for "professional" writers.

After the students absorbed those figures, I would go on to say, "If your parents worked the way I do, they would go to work every day for the next couple of months--or years, perhaps--and, at the end of that time, they would ask the boss, "Do you want the work I've done for you?"  And if the boss said, "Yes," they would get paid.  If the boss said "No," they wouldn't.

It's not a secure existence, to put it mildly.

That's been the hardest piece for me to adjust to as a self-supporting writer, the financial uncertainty.  A book that gets starred reviews and that the editor and I both think will go big can disappear with barely a trace.  (I once heard another writer say about that phenomenon, "More copies were returned to the publisher than went out.")  On the other hand, a board book I whipped off in a couple of hours that receives no critical attention, a low advance and a smaller royalty percentage on a lower price, can pay my rent for years.

That uncertainty is why most self-supporting writers supplement their income by doing such things as lectures and school visits.  I know some who have ended up on such an intensive cross-country circuit that they barely have time to breathe, let alone write.  Which is more than a bit counterproductive, but a bird in the hand is hard to ignore. 

I don't do school visits any longer, except for volunteering for my grandchildren from time to time.  I miss the contact with the kids, miss it seriously, but I simply ran out of the kind of energy it takes to stand for hours before a gym full of wiggly kids . . . or bored-looking teens. 

The other option for some guaranteed income is to teach developing writers, and that's something I did for many years.  I know few things more thrilling than being able to open the door to the moment when another writer breaks through to her own story, her own heart in a way I, as her teacher, could never have imagined. 

Nonetheless, the day came when for all my love of the process, the students, the program I was part of, I couldn't teach any longer.  Simply could not.  Teaching demands creative energy.  Lots of creative energy.  And despite the fact that I always worked hard to be a writer who teaches, not a teacher who writes, I found I needed to return to the place where I had begun, being simply and only a writer, a working writer.

It's still not a secure existence, but I have learned my craft well, have managed to keep exploring deeply enough to stay fresh--or as fresh as seems possible for someone who has been publishing for nearly forty years--and I still find open doors for my work.

Not everyone who writes wants to work with the kind of slogging intensity required to be a self-supporting writer.  But for those who do, the work is good.