Art is not a cost-effective form of crazy

Two things of note if you’re looking to spend some of your money on readable things:

- My friend J.C. Hay’s novella, Hearts And Minds, is out in e-book format. I was an early set of eyes on this thing, and if you like steamy, ass-kicking space romance, buy this. Right now.

- The Polyphony anthology series is in trouble. Wheatland Press needs 225 pre-orders by March 1st to make it a reality. You can read their post about it here. The direct link to the book on their site (including a purchase link) is here.

It’s a bit of a melancholy night (morning, technically) here. I’ve had to deliver my “you are not your day job” lecture to a friend who’s feeling frustrated at the deferment of her dreams, and frustration at doing work that’s got nothing to do with her passion.

So here’s my stance on this. It isn’t really a manifesto or a confession or even anything important so much as an artist’s open letter to the world around him.

Every so often, I go read the qualifications a person has to have to be an astronaut. I’m a child of the 1980’s, and I had one of those ridiculous spring-loaded plastic rockets with the badly-molded space men in them, and I have been known to glue stars to my bedroom ceiling in spite of being thirty.

I read them, and I think, “Okay. If I hired a personal trainer, and went straight back to school,” and so on, I could meet those qualifications. I would have to want it very, very goddamn badly because I am out of shape, asthmatic, and not particularly inclined to be a scientist, but I could do it. I could bust ass and reach that bottom rung and hope that somebody would want to shoot me into space.

Or I could do what I’m doing right now, which is being a writer with a day job.

In the last year, I’ve spent much more in terms of resources on being a writer than I have earned. In purely fiscal terms, I might just barely break even on things like business cards and web hosting. Maybe. But there’s no way in hell I’m making a dent in this week’s trip to LA, or the cost of bringing my writing office up to spec (or having it at all). The netbook I’m using right now to type this was a gift. Electricity, last I checked, does not grow on trees.

Moreover, nobody is recouping me for the 20 hours/week I spend trying to put words in order. If I had spent that time flipping burgers at minimum wage, I’d be at least $7500 richer right now.

I am not $7500 richer. Or even $750 richer. Come to think of it, in 2009, I probably spent at least $750, what with Dragon*Con and all.

This is why I have a day job. Those 40 hours (well, technically closer to 55 if you count transit and other time away/preparation that I would not have to account for if I worked at home) are what make the 20 hours a week I spend in the chair possible. They feed me, clothe me, house me, and meet my basic needs. That day job will be paying me vacation time most of the time I’m in LA.

My day job sustains me.

Some weeks it doesn’t feel like it. Some weeks I do the math in my head and count up how much I’d have to make writing to quit and do some part time gig, or quit altogether, or quit with extreme prejudice, establish a trust for my family, and then run away and live in a hut in British Columbia.

I am pretty sure everybody has moments like this. Otherwise nobody would play the lottery. This is because most of us have the misfortune of buying, selling, or processing things as a career (or joining the Army) when we’d rather be kickboxing.

As a human being, I have to believe (either because it’s true, or out of self-defense) that those of us who have our hearts set on the sky but are not yet astronauts have a choice. We can be miserable because the world didn’t give us a space ship, we can find meaning and joy in the non-spaceship things in life and celebrate the ones who get to fly, or we can build that motherfucker in the back yard and hope it flies.

Being an artist is hard. Like being an astronaut, it takes a hell of a lot of work, and there are no guarantees that even if you put the work in, you will get anything out of it. For me, though, it’s worth the effort and the sacrifice.

And now, I’m going to bed. I’ve got work in the morning.

This post has been mirrored from Christian A. Young's Dimlight Archive. To see it in its original format, visit dimlightarchive.com