Sep 27, 2006
This Damn Job Eats Up All My Time

PIGS, I found myself in the bathroom reading an essay by Gene Wolfe, who's a well-known science-fiction writer. I'd read his Book of the New Sun series a few years back, and recently read an article about those books on the Intarwebs which indicated they were far more complex and subtle than I had suspected, which had prompted me to do some reading on Mr. Wolfe. This is not an uncommon occurrence for me: I am ignorant and superficial in many ways, so it should surprise no one that I can read a 300,000 word novel and walk away with nothing more than a slight grasp of what I've just read. I'll give myself this much credit: When I read the essay about The Book of the New Sun, I did find myself nodding and thinking, damn, I should have seen that. I'm not completely stupid, just lazy and inattentive.

I do my job and do it pretty well, but I still have plenty of time, usually, to do my own thing, which is write, and writing on the job still gives me a dirty little thrill, because in a way my soulless corporate masters are paying me to write novels. And drink at lunchtime. And surf pornography on the intarwebs. But now I've said too much.

Anyway, in this essay by Wolfe that I found myself reading out of simple curiosity, he writes about having a Day Job and being glad for it. Wolfe suggests that writers who hang onto their Day Jobs have fewer money worries, freeing themselves to write what they want instead of writing for money to pay bills. Mr. Wolfe wrote this about 25 years ago, of course, and I keep reading that the golden age for the freelance fiction writer was some variable number of years ago. The only thing anyone can seem to agree on is that this so-called Golden age is past. No one can agree on the actual time-frame, but the gist is, X number of years ago you could sell enough fiction to make a modest living, whereas today that's very, very hard to do unless you rocket to superstardom. But let's assume for the moment that when Wolfe wrote these words it was possible to eek out an existence writing fiction for a living.

Actually, I do know of a few writers today who survive on their writing earnings, but they generally have adjusted their lives to accommodate a very low (by some standards) annual income. They usually do freelance writing as well to augment these earnings—book reviews, interviews, essays here and there. It can be done, but it's a lifestyle choice and you've got to be willing to make the adjustment.

Anyway, back to Wolfe's idea: He had a job he enjoyed and he felt that having his immediate fiscal needs met left him the mental slack to write out of passion and not merely to sell. I thought about this, as I too have a Day Job and a slow-burning literary career of sorts, and I've come to the conclusion that I disagree: The Damn Day Job just takes up too much time.

Oh, I agree with Wolfe's idea in general—the reason I don't give up my Day Job and live a life of financial marginalism (aside from the death blows my wife The Duchess would inflict on me in such a situation) is because I'd rather be comfortable and know where my next meal is coming from than sweat out a freelance check or, you know, work too hard on submitting story ideas. If you're relying on your writing to pay the bills, you've got to hustle, or so it appears to me, and I have never been a very good hustler. I meander. I procrastinate. I could change if I had to, but why should I? So, I've chosen a comfortable path. I have a salary, a house, a mortgage payment, and I get to buy good beer and whisky. In return, I sell off about nine hours a day of my time.

These nine hours aren't too stressful, of course. I do my job and do it pretty well, but I still have plenty of time, usually, to do my own thing, which is write, and writing on the job still gives me a dirty little thrill, because in a way my soulless corporate masters are paying me to write novels. And drink at lunchtime. And surf pornography on the intarwebs. But now I've said too much.

Still, writing on the job isn't wonderful. It's a terrible environment, and there's all sorts of interruptions—like having to actually attend to your duties—and after about four hours of sitting at my desk I get all jelly-brained, and no amount of passion gets the gears grinding. Plus there's all this tedious waking up early and commuting and putting on my polite, Midwestern corporate persona every day. Much fun. Despite the theory, I'd give up my Day Job tomorrow in return for a modest stipend and low-level financial anxiety for the rest of my life, without hesitation. Even if I slept until noon every day I'd still be getting back time on the deal, and if I spent my days sopping up whisky and making a neighborhood nuisance of myself, who, really, would notice the change? No, if I could be guaranteed that I wouldn't default on the house and die, forgotten, in a gutter six months after giving up my job, I'd do so in a heartbeat. Assuming there was a large escrow account set up for The Duchess to purchase shoes with, of course. But I'm lazy. Strangely, working a day job is the easiest thing to do, and Your Humble Editor always does the easy thing, bubba. Always.

Some people think that in order to be a good writer, you have to suffer a lot. If you're not lucky enough to have been born in some writerly disadvantageous situation, you should create one for yourself. Drinking heavily is one time-tested technique, of course. Oh sure, booze starts out as all fun and games, but after ten or fifteen years you're physically wrecked, emotionally shattered, and your life is a disaster—plenty ruinous for you to find deep deposits of misery within yourself which can inspire writing. Of course, not everyone has the physical stamina that I have to withstand the deleterious effects of being marinated on a daily basis, so another way to bring misery into your life is to court bankruptcy. Living under the spectre of starvation and eviction all the time can create the same deposits of misery, especially if you get married and have a family first, so that the suffering is magnified.

All bullshit, of course. Life experience is necessary in order to write, but some of the great stories of history were penned by rich people, or at least people who never worried overmuch about filthy lucre. So what's the point? Do I ever really have a point in these essays? Sometimes. Today's point is simply this: If you want to write, you write. Worrying over the proper situation to be in in order to write is just a delaying tactic. If you have bills to pay and can't sell much writing, get a job, you hippie.