Time and Money

what else?

Welcome new subscribers, and big thanks to those who upgraded from free recently. I so appreciate it. My substack is free to all, but if you do want to pay to subscribe, it’s a very good way to support this effort, and I’m grateful. (It’s $40 a year, of which Substack sends me $34.54. Everything helps!).

Ori lost his job recently, which I wrote about in my last substack. I am still adjusting to what this means, for us and generally. He is applying for things, and I am too. Probably we will not move anywhere anytime soon, though we recently, randomly drove to look at a house in DeKalb, Illinois, for no real reason. We just needed to get out of the house. It’s a nice house, but needs everything. We are attracted to this sort of midcentury disaster. Maybe one or both of us will go back to school at some point, or find a variety of different kinds of work. We plan to stay in the Chicago area for the immediate future, unless work takes us elsewhere. It’s very hard to be an artist, but also what you don’t typically learn in MFA school is how to be a businessperson, which is required if you’re an artist. In some ways I am okay at this, but mostly I am terrible. which is why I end up doing a lot of work for free. I don’t want to have to charge for the work. Like this substack. Or my pots, frankly. I get why other people charge for things. I really do. But for me, somehow, there are rocks in my head that prevent me from charging people for my work or my time. This happens a lot.

If you work for yourself, or even if you have a W2 job, how do you manage when people ask you for things, where you could be charging for that type of work? I know, on an intellectual level, to just say “My hourly is xyz,” when someone asks me for advice or to consult. But it’s so hard to do the ask. Why is it so hard? I would rather someone just secretly pay me without warning. But I know this is in no way a reasonable solution.

I think part of it is about the problem of what it means to be a “good literary citizen.” I see a lot of folks charging big money to essentially gain access to them as a writer. Basically, these people are charging for their opinion on your work, and possibly the opportunity to be recommended in some way, to legitimize the work. In some ways, this is very good, and a significant step up from past things: the work involved in reading, editing, reviewing, and coaching writers is not insubstantial. Being a writing coach is a ton of work, and some people are quite good at it, and deserve to be compensated for their time. But, there are some issues: among them the fact that some writers who request these services may be better served by other types of support: therapy with an actual therapist, organizational help, applying for residencies or other opportunities, social media work/promotion, or other things. The price point is also a question, always—I see people charging big bucks for these types of services, and it makes me uncomfortable. What about those who can’t afford to do this and who didn’t attend an MFA in their twenties (though some of the people signing up for this help inevitably also got their MFA)? Will they be able to get the connections they need? (Yes, it’s just more likely via free online literary citizenship, which is different, perhaps more difficult. Or via one of the various mentoring opportunities, like through Cave Canem, Kundiman, Periplus, AWP Writer-to-Writer, Yetzirah, and other options like this. Some people find mentorship in attending other workshops, like at Kenyon, Tin House, or Breadloaf). I like the one-on-one, but I am always not sure if this is how I should work. I should be teaching something; I absolutely could use the money, and I love teaching. But it’s complicated to do the asking, to figure out how much to charge, and when to meet, at least for me. I feel like I used to be better at this? And I’m forever torn on how to manage boundaries and do a good job.

On the flip side, there are lots of cheap classes where people are paid a small fee for teaching on a particular platform. That’s great, but many of them are not really worth it for the writer, unless you already have a class set up and ready to go. The amount of compensation, after the split with the other organization, can be minimal, sometimes a fraction of the total tuition for the class.

Then there is the “writing club” model, where a writer pays some amount of money per month and is part of an accountability club. A lot of those groups seem to work well too: there’s stuff like the Anti-Accountability Workshop, and the Morning Writing Club. Plus the London Writers’ Hour, which is free but you can pay to subscribe for more access. Most of these types of opportunities rely on a subscription model where folks just sign up for some nominal fee and then are able to join a daily or weekly group zoom where they can write during this time. I don’t think I could start one of these and also get my own work done. Plus there are so many good groups like this already.

In the meantime I am just writing, making work, making the book, figuring out where the words go and then putting them there. It’s endlessly repetitive, and so much work, but I have to finish. It is impossibly sad.

In other news, I am doing the Evanston farmers’ market this summer, a few popups for a program called Home Grown Artists, for my ceramics work. If you would like to get a plate, or a platter, or a planter, or a vase or canister or cup or trinket dish, this is a good place to do that. I will be at the market August 3 and August 31, though I am still waiting to hear if these dates work for them. I will send out another reminder closer to these dates, once they’ve been confirmed. This is just an opportunity to come see the work in person, hang out, and buy something. I would love to see you, so please come. I will also have an online sale soon, mostly cups. Stay tuned for that one and thanks for reading.

Books I can’t stop thinking about lately:

LIARS, by Sarah Manguso, out in July

TOMORROW, AND TOMORROW, AND TOMORROW, by Gabrielle Zevin

EXHIBIT, by R.O. Kwon