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The Contract With Myself
Jan. 10th, 2018 02:56 pmI'm still listening to BIG MAGIC by Elizabeth Gilbert, on cd in the car. Today, I listened to the part about the contract she made with herself as a sixteen year old. There are no rituals, no rites that wannabe writers can fall back on when one wants to marry writing.
I know that when I was about 14, I started making the New Year's resolution to be that little bit more dedicated to my writing. To write more, and more, and more. As I got older, that resolution also included send stuff out more often, read more widely, try new markets.
It all fell by the wayside when I had my first breakdown at 26, and I felt myself denatured, and put back together differently. The driven, focussed, rather cold-blooded writer self was gone. A much more vulnerable, self-doubting, older, wiser, jaded, and fractured self took her place.
But Liz Gilbert promised herself that she would remain faithful, and that she would never ask her writing to support her. She would always support it.
Now, there's an important crux for me. In the back of my mind, I have ALWAYS expected that, one day, one mythical day, my writing would bring me in The Big Money. It could not exist just for itself, and be a joy, and something I did to help me understand the world, and what was going on in my mind and heart. No. It had to be measurable via money.
"When you can earn as much as me, you'll be worth as much as me" - LoafAbout.
The angry, but supposedly kidding, reaction of The Ex Bastard when he realised I was paid $700 for a story that appeared in Australian Women's Forum, and had taken me 90 minutes to write, and maybe half an hour to polish. He was outraged that, in those 120 minutes, my hourly rate of pay far exceeded his. He felt compelled to average that out over a financial year, to make himself feel better.
All these ways that people, including myself, wanted to quantify and value my writing.
Well, I gotta say, it's not a very healthy way for me to be.
I no longer have to scrabble to get articles into paying markets, because our family is comfortable. I am extremely fortunate, but even when we were quite poor, I still wrote for non-paying markets, hoping that all those words would add up to a paid gig, or a book, or notice, applause, or a big fat cheque from the gods.
Now, I can do it because I want to, like to, and it's fun. With nothing beyond my own self to amuse, and if that happens to amuse others, great.
I am in an extremely rarified and fortunate situation.
So, dear writing, I take the burden off you. Let's go back to playing. Creation for the sake of it, and I'll do what it takes to make sure you're safe. Here, have this butterfly house, and all the honey and water, and pineapple you can eat. Have soft lights, humidity, and warmth. I'll just pop along daily, and see how you're going.
Now, about that new story THE LITTLE EARTH MAID...isn't it time our heroine's life went to shit?
I know that when I was about 14, I started making the New Year's resolution to be that little bit more dedicated to my writing. To write more, and more, and more. As I got older, that resolution also included send stuff out more often, read more widely, try new markets.
It all fell by the wayside when I had my first breakdown at 26, and I felt myself denatured, and put back together differently. The driven, focussed, rather cold-blooded writer self was gone. A much more vulnerable, self-doubting, older, wiser, jaded, and fractured self took her place.
But Liz Gilbert promised herself that she would remain faithful, and that she would never ask her writing to support her. She would always support it.
Now, there's an important crux for me. In the back of my mind, I have ALWAYS expected that, one day, one mythical day, my writing would bring me in The Big Money. It could not exist just for itself, and be a joy, and something I did to help me understand the world, and what was going on in my mind and heart. No. It had to be measurable via money.
"When you can earn as much as me, you'll be worth as much as me" - LoafAbout.
The angry, but supposedly kidding, reaction of The Ex Bastard when he realised I was paid $700 for a story that appeared in Australian Women's Forum, and had taken me 90 minutes to write, and maybe half an hour to polish. He was outraged that, in those 120 minutes, my hourly rate of pay far exceeded his. He felt compelled to average that out over a financial year, to make himself feel better.
All these ways that people, including myself, wanted to quantify and value my writing.
Well, I gotta say, it's not a very healthy way for me to be.
I no longer have to scrabble to get articles into paying markets, because our family is comfortable. I am extremely fortunate, but even when we were quite poor, I still wrote for non-paying markets, hoping that all those words would add up to a paid gig, or a book, or notice, applause, or a big fat cheque from the gods.
Now, I can do it because I want to, like to, and it's fun. With nothing beyond my own self to amuse, and if that happens to amuse others, great.
I am in an extremely rarified and fortunate situation.
So, dear writing, I take the burden off you. Let's go back to playing. Creation for the sake of it, and I'll do what it takes to make sure you're safe. Here, have this butterfly house, and all the honey and water, and pineapple you can eat. Have soft lights, humidity, and warmth. I'll just pop along daily, and see how you're going.
Now, about that new story THE LITTLE EARTH MAID...isn't it time our heroine's life went to shit?
