Wonderful Blunderful Me

the wonders and blunders

FALL ROUND-UP

“I will cut adrift—I will sit on pavements and drink coffee—I will dream; I will take my mind out of its iron cage and let it swim—this fine October.” (Virginia Woolf)

Here’s what my fall has looked like so far:

-THE FAMILY FORTUNA has a cover! It’s been set loose upon the world, and it’s so perfect, I have to gnash my teeth in excitement every time I remember it.

This commissioned illustration was created by the brilliant Elena Masci and designed by the incomparable Matt Roeser, and I tear up a little when I look at it—there’s my Avita, there’s her family in the ring. There’s my name on the cover of this book that took a chunk of my soul with it. It’s really happening.

And you can read it! Soon! ARCs are circulating, and I’m pretty sure the book is available to request on Edelweiss or Netgalley or places where digital ARCs can be found. The book comes out on March 7, 2023, and if you really want to show me how psyched you are to read it, you could preorder it now! Or request it from your library! SOON!

-THE PATRON THIEF OF BREAD is chugging along just fine, gathering more and more readers and listeners who adore Duck and Griselde as much as I do. It’s been recommended as a good holiday gift by Publishers Weekly, so if you want to take their word for it, here’s their list!

-I turned in a revision of my next book with Candlewick, another YA due out in 2024. I’ll tell you more about it when I can, but the book has been a complete delight to work on. No major struggles, just creative bliss.

-Kids are in school, the home is bewitched and be-spookled for Halloween shenanigans, and the air is crisp and thin, just the way I like it.

REALLY DEEP THOUGHTS

How many incomes does it take to have a career writing fiction?

Caveat: I keep rewriting this because I can’t quite figure out my point. Do I have a point? Or am I in need of a catharsis? Am I writing this for encouragement? For validation? Maybe a little of all of it?

To start with, here are my anti-points:

-I am not the first one to have this experience or point out these complications. I’ll link to as many other pieces as I can, because there’s plenty of smarter people than me who have written about these very subjects. So this isn’t meant to be groundbreaking.

-I don’t have any answers. I will not offer any solutions. I have no freaking idea how to fix any of the things that are broken.

-I’m not alone, and I’m not the worst off. I’ll try to point out my privilege where I can, but if you need to roll your eyes when I lament about my situation, that’s totally understandable. I am naïve in lots of ways.

So I got a day job.

I’ve had income streams besides writing fiction, of course. There were my online writing classes in 2020-2021, my ghostwriting in 2019, various manuscript editing, writing coaching, and freelance pieces over the years. I taught piano lessons. I’ve helped with my family’s events/catering business. I’ve done odd jobs for cash.

But this is different. This is, as I keep calling it, a grown-up job. My first grown-up job, really. With a work laptop. And a team. Clocking in, clocking out. Forty hours a week. Accountability. Hourly wages. Meetings. Grown-ups. It is technically seasonal, but if I’m given the opportunity to stay on past the holidays, at this point, I’ll fight for that chance.

It’s been a month since I started, and in that time, I’ve had a rainbow of emotions:

-A feeling of relief, since (TMI) financially, it has been an incredibly stressful and fruitless year for us

-A feeling of acute anger, since a small, cruel part of me views this as a failure

-A feeling of confusion: what does this mean about my writing? My career? What about the plans and goals I had? What do I do for a living, then? Is this forever? Is this possible? Is this something I should have done a long time ago? Could this solve everything? Or will it make everything worse?

-A feeling of discouragement, since my brain has absolutely shifted to make room for this new responsibility, and I am always loathe to reorder the various compartments of my brain (you know that feeling when you’ve arranged things just so?)

Pretty much any other income stream I’ve created for myself has been to facilitate my writing. So I’ve never thought of a day job in terms of sustaining life for me and my family; I’ve thought of day jobs and income in terms of writing. Examples: Bills are paid not so I keep the lights on for me and my children, but so I can write. Rent is paid so I can then turn my attention to writing. Lack of income and money stress is terrible for my family, yes, but it’s also ruinous to my writing time.

You can think I’m horribly selfish for this pattern of thinking, and of course I’m exaggerating slightly—the actual humans in my life come first. I would never sacrifice their well-being to save my creative self, not if it was a Sophie’s Choice situation. But my creative self is the third baby, the most delicate and needy and yet easily satiated of the bunch, and it is with my creative self in mind that I have made most of my financial decisions basically my whole life.

So my first real day job at age 35 when I also have an established, fairly successful career as a professional novelist? It’s fodder for an identity crisis.

I’m aware I’m lucky. There have been some years when publishing has paid our bills, and some years when it hasn’t, but I’ve always managed to compensate, to patch holes here and there. I’m aware I’ve also been pretty stupid in some ways. I’ve put faith in myself (never a mistake) and I’ve put faith in the publishing industry (always a bad idea) and I probably should have spent more time on a safety net for myself.

There are countless writers who never quit their day jobs, even as their writing careers accelerated into motion (and they are smart). There are countless writers who were never able to view publishing income as anything but a bonus check, a drop in the savings barrel, an amount of money so small, it can’t possibly register as a true consideration. I’ve been lucky. Not everyone can be this dumb about income and finances and survive to tell the tale. (More about this below.)

I said I couldn’t decide on what the point of all this is. Well, here is the closest thing I came to one:

Should professional writers be able to pay their bills without additional income streams?

I won’t rehash the big trial that happened this summer, but in case you didn’t know, a big trial happened this summer. Every writer I know was simultaneously validated (“so those feelings of inadequacy were for good reason! I am inadequate in this industry!”) and incredibly disheartened (“oh… those feelings of inadequacy were for good reason. I am inadequate in this industry.”)

At least a dozen conversations about The Biz sprung forth from the information reported and shared during this trial, and they are important: exclusion and white supremacy in the industry, the unfair workload and low pay for publishing staff, the potential damage of massive corporate conglomeration for creators and consumers alike. But one thing we were all talking and reading and fretting about was how much writers are—or aren’t—paid.

A career in fiction isn’t reliable. It’s unfeasible to expect to earn a living as a professional novelist. You might as well buy a lottery ticket.

I’ve heard and read it all. For more than a decade, since I started seriously writing for publication—as a professional—I have taken in these messages, bitter pills to drink down with my tea. I find them so unbelievably unhelpful. First, they are defeatist—and I know that realistic expectations are important, especially in a creative field. But these kinds of statements are not meant to empower the receiver or point out the unfairness of the situations; they are meant to discourage. To blow out. To stomp down.

Second, they highlight something that is probably true—it is difficult to live on a fiction writer’s income—but they fail to point out that this is probably EFFED UP. I think a big reason why these statements and “hard truths” prevail, especially from publishing professional to publishing professional, is because we still collectively maintain a romanticized idea of what it means to be a writer.

Writers from our cultural consciousness are driven by passion, not discipline. They are fueled by rage and conflict, not wonder or connection. Their books are often created and published out of a sense of entitlement (“I’m a genius and I deserve to be read”) and are often depicted turning away money, contracts, “selling out” in order to remain true to their art. Many are willing to die in obscurity for the sake of their art; few must actually do this, because eventually 1) their invisible, unthanked support systems save them, 2) they find patrons who are willing to invest in their work, or 3) they hit some sort of jackpot and their genius is validated by a big fat check (or fanbase, or emotional release).

As long as they are really, truly good enough, our collective idea of writers says, you will be plucked out of obscurity and showered with capitalism’s greatest rewards.

So, do we kind of think all writers are like that, maybe? And that’s why we demand that writers swallow the lines about the lottery, the harsh reality about fiction incomes, because we’re a bit stymied that all these writers believe their work is worthy of genius? Worthy of the plucking?

Not every job pays well. Not every job pays what it’s worth. I know this. I know teachers are underpaid in a way disproportionate to the amount of effort they must put out. I know our “essential workers” are simultaneously the backbone of our country and also the working poor. I know money seems to flow to some industry professionals not because they are The Best, but because they are the ones who direct the stream.

But, my stars, isn’t it strange? How hard a writer can work, how many years of training and honing craft and all-consuming labor we can do, how much publishers can profit from our stories… and how many of us can’t pay our bills with this work alone?

On the other hand, we LOVE a writer who sticks around publishing out of love for the work. “You have to love the writing,” we love to say. “You can’t do it because of a paycheck. If you really love the writing, if you have just one reader who is inspired by your book, nothing else matters.”

I mean, I’m pretty sure groceries matter.

We love a martyr as much as we love an untapped genius—and, surprise, surprise, guess which gender gets to be the genius and which gender gets to be the martyr? (Ditto along race/ethnicity lines, and other margins, too, probably.)

This is especially endemic in children’s publishing, where many writers are expected to put in the excruciating labor of creating good books at exploitative prices for the sake of the children. Again, this is exacerbated for people of color in the industry—the need for representation in novels and picture books is weighed against the willingness of publishers to pay for that representation, and many writers choose to work for free or at unfairly low prices in order to secure space on the shelves for that representation.

Now. Every writer is different, which is probably why it’s hard to quantify how much a writer “should” make.

Not every writer spends the equivalent of a full-time job on their books. Many writers I know spend more than forty hours a week writing, revising, outlining, and authoring (answering emails, corresponding with agents/editors, blogging, arranging events, writing newsletters just like this). Some writers can comfortably produce a polished novel in a year’s time. Some writers need longer. All ways, paces, and processes are valid. All of it is work. All of it deserves fair compensation.

Because this is my newsletter and my point, I’ll use myself for an example.

Hi, I’m a writer. I primarily write novels. I am on some kind of deadline with my editor nine months out of the year on average. I write 28 days out of every 30 on average. Back when I kept track of my word counts, I wrote about 3,000 words a day on average. Back when I kept track of my hours, I wrote for about 4-6 hours a day on average.

That’s just the writing, by the way. I easily have 10-15 hours a week of Author Work, the aforementioned emails/organizing/calendaring/marketing/website tweaking that is required to make writing into a career.

That also doesn’t tabulate other things that a “normal” corporate or hourly job would include: trainings (which for me would be reading, listening to craft discussions, artist dates, etc.) or meetings (which for me are emails with my editor or agent, journaling about my career, speaking with other writers about their careers).

I don’t take years to produce a single book. (Again, this is not to point fingers at writers who do need longer baking times for their manuscripts.) If I was paid well enough to support my family, my time and energy would be free enough that I could easily be a two- or three-book-a-year gal. Hell, I produce that many books already without being paid.

I do not treat writing like a luxury hobby that I demand payment for. This is my work. This is my life. I don’t know anyone who has thrown themselves into a career, a vocation, a calling the way I have. And yet I must subsidize my own career, find other ways to bring in money so I can afford to write.

Not just that—I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the other forms of income I’ve used to hold up my career. My partner works. And yet even his income plus my own sporadic publishing income isn’t enough to subsist long term or with any kind of consistency. It really does require his day job + my day job + money from publishing in order to support my career.

Other sources of income that have kept my lights on while I write essentially for free? My family members. They’ve been unofficial patrons of my work this year, helping with bills, patiently loaning money while I try to gaze into the submissions crystal ball—will I have a publishing paycheck soon? Murky. Have I done the work? 100% yes. (Does this cause tremendous guilt on my part? Oh, it sure does. Does it sometimes feel like I’m asking my entire family and some of my community to pay for my life so I can write my little stories? Oh, it sure does. Does it make my writing feel like a glorified hobby? Oh, it sure does.)

Please, self-publishing missionaries, do not bound in here to tell me that the answer lies therein. I’ve had plenty of experience in the world of self-publishing, and it is no better than traditional publishing. Different problems, different access points, different highlights and lowlights, but it is not a silver bullet. I have always kept self-publishing as an open door in my head and will continue to do so!

I don’t think I’m a secret genius. I don’t think you have to be a genius to write really good books, I think you just have to work your ass off, and I do. I don’t think I’m entitled to book deals, acclaim, or readers. I don’t think wanting a good, livable wage to do your work—for which you are an expert, because in any other field, I’d be considered a well-decorated, sought-after expert—means that you’re entitled. Publishers should want my books. Readers should want them. I should get acclaim. Because I’m good—because I work damn hard to be good.

So, like I said above, I don’t have answers for this. Pay writers more. Who’s in charge of that? I dunno. Lots of people. Lots of systems, which are built by and maintained by people. Will it ever change? My guess is it’ll only get worse.

Anyway. The day job.

I’m very grateful that I found something to provide stability for awhile. I’ve been around this industry long enough to know that the wheel is always spinning, cycling, moving along. Things change. Things stay the same. What is the case today will not be tomorrow.

But it’s still an emotional change for me. I’ve used all sorts of metrics to review my performance as a creator. I’ve tried loving publishing the most. (Publishing doesn’t care.) I’ve tried working the hardest. (Someone always has you beat.) I’ve tried being the best. (Not a metric for anything except heartbreak.) I’ve tried caring the least. (Pretending not to care means my soul gets eaten from the inside.) I’ve tried sacrificing the most. (A dishonest metric, since I am white.)

I’ve never been foolish enough to use money as a metric for my success. But a day job means I really, really shouldn’t use this as a metric, and my brain registers that as a failure. A bad omen. A closing door.

Ridiculous.

In the meantime, I am still writing. Writing like my work is worth a million dollars. My writing is worth a million dollars whether I am paid that much or not.

There are some times when my writing supports me, and there are some times when I am supporting my writing.

To my writing: I’ve got you. This time, I’ve got you.

COMING UP FOR ME

-On November 4th, I’ll be part of a Spring ‘23 Preview for Candlewick Press with other amazing authors! I’ll be talking about THE FAMILY FORTUNA. You can register here.

-National Novel Writing Month season is upon us! I’m not opening my fast drafting class quite yet, but if you’re interested in a self-directed course (basically all of the lectures/worksheets/materials but without the live chats/Q&As with me), you can purchase this for a reduced price. Email me to learn more.

TIDBITS

WORKING ON

Like I said, I just turned in a huge revision for my next YA, so while I’m waiting on feedback/line edits, I’m turning my attention to a couple of unfinished projects. One of them is an adult historical fantasy I’ve been working on since 2018.

We’ve been up to some non-writing creative projects in this house, too. Like this miniature hall of bugs.

Also a cardboard work-in-progress haunted house. My kids know as well as I do that magic can happen with some paper, cardboard, and tape.

READING

Here are some of the books I recently read and enjoyed:

THROUGH THE WOODS by Emily Carroll

CINDERS AND SPARROWS by Stefan Bachmann

THE ARGONAUTS by Maggie Nelson

MRS. FRISBY AND THE RATS OF NIMH by Robert C. O’Brien

JIM HENSON: THE BIOGRAPHY by Brian Jay Jones

LISTENING TO

It’s fall, so I turn into the most basic pile of autumn leaves in a sweater. Here’s what I have on repeat at my house:

Yo La Tengo’s I Can Hear the Heart Beating

Dan in Real Life soundtrack

Vampire Weekend’s Vampire Weekend

Coraline

It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown

Beetlejuice: the Musical, Musical, Musical

Labyrinth

U2’s October

Sufjan Stevens’ Michigan

WATCHING

Over the Garden Wall, See How They Run, Alien, Jennifer’s Body, Labyrinth, Better Call Saul, and Rocky Horror Picture Show

Talk to you again soon! Let me know if there’s something specific you’re hoping I write about.