Time, Money and Writing

I'm almost finished with a book called Sex at Dawn: The Prehistoric Origins of Modern Sexuality , in which the co-authors contend (among many other things) that much evidence from the fields of archaeology, anthropology and primatology suggests that for millions of years our primitive ancestors actually had a fairly leisurely lifestyle. Members of small foraging groups spent a few hours a week doing things like gathering nuts and berries or collecting firewood, doctors Jethá and Ryan tell us, and then they spent the rest of the time relaxing, taking naps, telling stories, having sex etc.

In our era, not so much.

The complicated, conflicted relationship we have with time takes on a special flavor when you are in a creative business. Art takes time. Making money also takes time. If you don't make money with your art, you have to use some of your art-making time making money. (Sounds kind of like an Eagles lyric, doesn't it?)

On one hand, there is no substitute for life experience, so one might argue that having a job and interacting with people out there in the real world of mundane practicalities is good for the imagination. Raw sensory input and varied intellectual stimulation from the universe outside your head keep the juices percolating. On the other hand, however, if you spend eight hours a day in an office or factory, and another hour a day commuting, then by the time you have finished taking care of things like grocery shopping, getting a haircut, going to the post office, putting gas in your car and doing laundry, you barely have enough room left in your schedule to get eight hours of sleep. How are you supposed to write a novel?

If you are a professional novelist, this is not a problem. Not only can you devote sixteen hours a day to writing when you need to, you can even aggressively seek out exactly the kinds of real-world experiences you need for inspiration and/or research. You can even deduct your expenses.

Likewise, if you are independently wealthy, there does not have to be tension between your literary agenda and your daily responsibilities.

But 99.99% of all writers do NOT make a comfortable and secure living by writing, so the rest of us are faced with a dilemma. How to be a writer and simultaneously be a non-starving, non-homeless, mostly sober member of adult human society?

Option One — The Ferocious Work Ethic.
With discipline, determination, focus, excellent time-management skills and the right priorities, it is theoretically possible to have a lucrative full-time non-writing career and yet also be a writer. When you get home, instead of turning on the TV, you lock yourself in your private study, pour yourself a glass of something fermented, distilled and aged, and pound out a few more pages. This is a great system for high-achievers, or those who don't mind allowing every other aspect of their personal lives to disintegrate into a shambles. (There are support groups for people trapped in relationships with novelists.)

Option Two — Alternating.
Work for a year, write for a year. This works great if you (a) make a ton of money at your job and (b) have the freedom to leave for long periods and come back without any significant negative implications on your career. So if you can make $250,000 in 18 months working as an IT security consultant in San Francisco and then run off to a chalet in Switzerland or a country house in Tuscany or a stone cottage in Patagonia or a lighthouse in New Zealand to write a six-part erotic dystopian vampire series or an 800-page experimental story about a salad fork, good for you. A less ambitious version of this tactic is to spend a few months washing dishes at a cafeteria and then write a book about a water smuggler named "Space Dog" from the year 3036 over the summer while crashing on your buddy's couch. (There are support groups for people who have novelist friends.)

Option Three — Defaulting to Hopeless Inconsistency.
You try to do Option One or Option Two, but despite having the very best of intentions, you never seem to have enough time or money, something else always comes up, and before you know it, years have slipped by and all you have is a hard drive full of half-finished chapters or a folder full of notes, ideas and plot outlines.

Option Four — Spectacular, Idiotic Levels of Optimism.
Quit your day job and commit yourself to achieving financial success as a full-time writer. This approach is highly recommended for those who have a zest for risk-taking and enjoy such adventures as bankruptcy, foreclosure, divorce, homelessness, alcoholism and eventual death by hypothermia in an alley.

Option Five — Ah, Fuck It.
There are already plenty of novels in the world.

Melanie Neale, author of Boat Girl: A Memoir of Youth, Love & Fiberglass , is compiling an anthology of writers' stories called The Things They Did for Money, collaborating with her friend Danielle and indie publisher Matt Peters of Beating Windward Press. In it, writers recall how they made ends meet while pursuing their literary dreams. It's not out yet, but I will be first in line to buy it. This is a familiar struggle, as old as written language itself. Part of what makes writers such interesting people, I think, is the fact that they have to choose to defy convention, common sense and all the pressures and requirements of normal life to carve out the time to engage in such an enveloping activity. Not many projects consume as much of it as writing a novel. Not many people devote such care and attention to anything for free. And only a delusional person writes with money as the motive. (Many writers, admittedly, are delusional.) Writing is the most noble way to be pathetic.

I'm eagerly looking forward to reading The Things They Did for Money, and I expect to laugh, flinch, cringe and nod understandingly.