I have made all these decisions: to live as a writer — my decision. To bootstrap a software — my decision. Each non-revenue-producing moment has been by my own hand.
I accepted that, as an artist, I may never have a Mercedes or a Prada bag. I accepted that, as an entrepreneur, at least at the beginning, I would need to put money into my business that might otherwise be a down payment on a nice house. To not buy luxury or marble, I was ready for, and accepted.
And yet. I missed in those early days a consequence that has snuck up on me in mid-life: how much I really hate making less money than my friends.
A friend group forms a community, and at best, a kind of family, which means your resources pool. By simply being a part of it, at least for now, I make the pool smaller than, say, an accountant friend would. (But of course, I tell better stories.) This bothers me, this sense that I drag the group down.
A social psychologist would say, “Ah yes, equity theory.” This means we strive for fairness in our relationships, that we want to feel an easy balance between what we get out of it and what we put in. Both giving more than you get and getting more than you give in a relationship can lead to loneliness.
My friends, who have killed it in their careers and are doing well, I'm so glad to report, have been nothing but supportive. They would say, don’t worry about it.
But there are standard exchanges, the dinner party, the birthday gift, the place to stay, that I want to be able to reciprocate. In long friendships, the years multiply, the debts seem to accrue, even if I'm the only one counting. They have things they can offer me I want to be able to offer in return. And there are other things, the vacation, the fundraising dinner, the conversations, in which, hell, I just want to be able to participate.
I became a writer and dreamed specifically of being a travel writer and journalist, because I wanted to go out, experience the world, do, try, live. As travel writer Tim Cahill has written, "Adventure costs money." Over my career, both the travel writing industry and publication budgets in general have deflated like an unplugged bouncy house. This has turned journalism into a side hustle, with most writers I know scrambling to make money elsewhere. So now I'm a writer and a hustler: coach, software entrepreneur, ghostwriter, teacher, juggler — my decision. This scramble has resulted in the girl who always wanted to floor it in life becoming the brakes on the collective plans. I am the lowest budgetary denominator.
I interviewed a travel influencer once for tips about traveling with mixed budgets, and after following their account, saw them post something along the lines of “What to tell your broke friend when they want to come on the group trip? Don’t.” It killed me to see myself from that angle.
The hard thing to stomach is that being my friend has literally cost people I love. The dinner tabs they've picked up. The hosting they've done. “Seriously, don’t worry about it,” they would say. They tell me they’re proud of me for being a writer. For going for it. They tell me I am successful. And in ways, yes.
A truth I cite often is that of the two essays I’ve written that have gone viral, I was paid $40 for the first, and $200 for the second.
As an adult, you realize more and more how money slices and dices us into First Class and Priority, the not you’s and the not yets, the zip codes and carets. My plan was to be above it. The daily reality is that as someone with ADHD, which makes me more sensitive to rejection, I don’t like it out here. Making less money than my friends feels, at times, like a kind of rejection.
Supposedly, you become an artist because money isn’t important to you. Then it becomes something that’s on your mind all the time. Supposedly, you become an artist because you love beauty more than anything, and then you realize so much beauty is right through that door you can’t afford to enter.
I have this fantasy that I “make it” and take all my friends on this big vacation. I’m standing on some dock, meeting them, all arms open and big smiles. “Can you believe this?” I say, we say, because we know how long I’ve worked and how hard it’s been for me and for them and we are just so tickled and it’s so funny that now I’ve made it. My software's been bought or my (as-yet-unfinished) novel is sold at auction, and I’m able to pay what I perceive as some tab in one big, all-expenses-paid celebratory swoop that says thank you, thank you, thank you. And perhaps, I’m sorry.
"You’re being ridiculous," my friends would say.
Knowing what I know now, mid-life, what decision do I make moving forward?
I want to keep the faith, but I have never before been so tempted to give in. Get a job as a communications manager at an AI sexbot company, or something. At night, I put on the private browser and sneak a peek at salary ranges.
The entrepreneur in me says hold on just a little longer. But what if I’m never able to make it up to them?
Here’s the problem, paradoxically: There’s a stigma against sales and marketing in the writing world. It feels as if I’m diminished in larger society for not having money, but I’m diminished in my profession for seeking it.
I recently had an article published that I probably spent 50 hours on and got paid $100. I riddled it with links to my — sorry to use this word — offerings. With every link I added, I felt more and more exposed.
Am I trying to be a writer or am I trying to make more money? Both. Both both both. Yes, please click the link. I want you to. Let it be known. I like being a writer. I don’t like being the broke one. It is my goal to make good money. Click here now. Sign up! Buy this! I would like it to be easier to be my friend.
