The Writer Considered as a Prospector in the Klondike Gold Rush

Not long ago I wrote an essay called “Panning for Gold in the Literary River.” It was about my ongoing struggle to monetize my words. I love writing. I do it whether I have hope of selling the results or not; I can’t help myself. However, I also love eating, wearing clothes, having a place to live, and a multitude of other things for which we need money – and a significant amount of it if we want to be reasonably comfortable. It’s a struggle, though; for every writer who makes a decent living through their writing, there are dozens of others who are unable to manage and have to fall back on other ways to raise the cash so that they can keep creating.

Another gold rush analogy came to me as I was pondering this topic, and before I wrote about it I decided to return to the Seattle Unit of the Klondike Gold Rush National Historic Park, a small museum located near Pioneer Square in downtown Seattle. On the day I planned to go, though, the temperature was around freezing, and there was a fairly brisk wind that made it seem much colder. I shivered as I waited for the bus to the light rail station where I’d catch a train to get me within walking distance of the facility. But when I reached the station, a security guard told me it was shut down for repairs. He directed me across the street to a bus stop from which, he said, I could catch a shuttle bus to the next station. I waited, shivering, with a few other people, but when the clearly marked shuttle bus passed by, the driver waved at us but didn’t stop. I couldn’t stand the cold any longer; I went back across the street and caught a bus back home. I’ve been to the Klondike Gold Rush Park on two other occasions recently, though, so I can remember its ambiance and most of its exhibits. And the cold causes me to empathize with those inexperienced gold seekers in the late 1800s who had no idea of the hardships that were ahead.

At the museum there is a game you can play, called Strike It Rich, to test your luck in comparison to other gold seekers. You spin a wheel that’s at least four or five feet across, and the object is to have an arrow point to a tiny inch-wide wedge that reads “wow, you struck it rich.” A plaque next to the game tells us that it is estimated that 100,000 people embarked for the Klondike, 40,000 reached the Klondike, 20,000 worked claims or prospected, 300 made $15,000 or more in gold, and only about 50 of those 300 kept their wealth for any length of time. Think of it. Only approximately 50 of the 100,000 who set forth with dreams and determination ever obtained the lasting rewards that all of them had sought.

This made me think about writing, and by extension any creative endeavor. How many creative writers are there in the world? I’d guess at least hundreds of thousands, and possibly millions who dream, at one time or another, of a career in writing. Like the Klondike gold seekers, many of them never get close, that is, they might try to write but never manage to complete anything; a smaller percentage of those who attempt to write actually finish stories or essays or novels or whatever; an even smaller percentage either send out their work to editors or agents or try to publish it themselves; a much smaller percentage make it to publication, at least occasional publication; and only a handful of published writers make a comfortable living at it. It’s the Klondike all over again. As an aside, a man who went to the Klondike seeking not gold but experiences he could turn into stories probably made more money after his journey than any of the prospectors who struck it rich. His name? Jack London.

The point of this analogy is that if the accumulation of wealth is the primary reason you’re a writer, you’re in the wrong business. Don’t get me wrong; it’s a wonderful thing when you get paid. I’ve occasionally received checks for story sales that have come at the right time and gotten me out of significant financial binds. But you can’t count on steady money coming in. Sometimes it comes, and sometimes it doesn’t. I can’t speak for everyone, of course; in fact, I can only speak for myself. But in my experience, writing is something I have to do no matter what else is going on in my life. It is essential that I use words to interpret my life. I cannot imagine existence, at least my existence, without writing. So odds be damned, I’ll head for the Klondike, or wherever else I feel compelled to go, and I’ll write about my adventures and hope that someday, somehow, it pays off. Whether it does or not, you’ll keep hearing from me as long as I’m alive. And even beyond, in fact, because my sons have assured me that they’ll keep my books available even after I’m gone.

In closing, let me emphasize that there is nothing wrong with your desire to become rich and famous as a writer, but that’s not what’s of primary importance. It’s the words that count. Your voice. Your art. Keep at it no matter what. Never throw in the bloodied towel. And eventually, who knows? Anything can happen.

I’m a professional writer; I make my living by my words.  I’m happy to share these essays with you, but at the same time, financial support makes the words possible.  If you’d like to become a patron of the arts and support my work, buy a few of my available books or available stories. To send a one-time or recurring donation, click here. You can also donate via my Patreon account. Thanks!