of course, the other response could be, Who gives a fuck?

I'm talking about jesmimi's complaint. And I'm saying who gives a fuck because does this really change what we do, and what we expect? And if it does, should it?

None of us, obviously--hopefully--got into this line of work because of the pay. So. So there's now left the question of why we got into it at all and while some might say that it's because we can't do anything else, ultimately this reasoning is a little bankrupt, as people who have no innate capabilities succeed at things every day; it's just a matter of deciding to do something, learning how to do it, and applying ourselves to it. (Also please note: this line of reasoning is especially bankrupt when one considers the nice little Talented & Gifted worlds most of us come from.) So. So there are not now the matters of our getting into it for the pay and of our getting into it because it was the only thing we could do, leaving many many reasons, but probably just one (or both) of two: because we love to write, and/or because we have a vision, an unimpeachable, indefatigable artistic vision. Also maybe a message. (One way that this word--"vision"--has been interpreted in the literary world has been as "message.")

So. And whatever. Whatever because whether it pays $40k or $400k--or, god forbid, $4M--still I'm gonna write because still I'll have a way of looking at the world I'll feel compelled to share with said world, and still I'll have things I need to say. Hell, even if I don't get published at all, ever, I'm not completely convinced I'll stop writing. Novels, maybe--because jesus christ this is a pain in the ass and the closest thing I've had in my life to a full-time, permanent position--but most likely not stories, most likely I'll just keep writing and writing those fuckers until the magazine editorial world collectively pulls its head out of its ass and publishes me. But maybe that's me. But that's probably not just me. I've been writing in some form or other since I was 8, and consitently since I was 19. It's how I interact with the world; it's how I keep sane.

But back to the money, because yeah sure it would be nice, but as I said hell no I didn't expect that shit. I never expected that shit. Oh sure, I dream, dream every day of just how exactly my show on Oprah would go, just how many gasps and deflated hopes there would be when all those women in the audience learn I have no love to give, but I don't count on that shit, I don't count on that and money and truth be told, deep deep down, I in no way presume that I'll be able to do more than eke out an existence until someone rich and close to me dies and leaves me some money. Good then. Can't wait for that shit.


Maybe the thing is to embrace our future poverty. Maybe the thing to do is to reorient what we want and expect out of this patriotic^, writer's life, and how we gauge satisfaction and happiness. Small presses are good; online zines can provide a forum. Or maybe we should all get together and do what Eggers did: start a goddam press of our own and publish our own shit. Fuck these giant publishing houses and fuck the slovenly American public they cater to. Illiterates all and swine, and we have nothing to offer them but pearls.

You just worry about your end of the bargain. Let that other shit work itself out.


^In that we are not living abroad. Well, none of us except masticated.