Earning Something from Writing...Daydream of an Indomitable Writer

I had never missed a month in the years I've been posting this blog. Until now. I overlooked January 2012. Shame on me. I've been painting. No excuse at all.

I am quite poor, you know, mostly as a result of traveling too much (internationally relocating too often, to be precise) and following my two other major raisons-d'etre - writing and painting. I am able to augment my meagre income with the occasional sale of humble artworks, but there is absolutely no financial gain from my (less humble) fiction. To date. Which leads me to my little dream of 'what if?', which rarely presents itself, but when it does, I indulge it.

What if I do sell one of my novels...even all of them (four so far)? How would this change my life? Being very equitable in my attitude to money, I'm not expecting to reap huge rewards. Why should A earn so much, compared with B's earning so little, for the same standard of work? So my theoretical advance from a publisher would be suitably undramatic. A few grand, ten or even twenty. Wouldn't that be nice? No expectations of six figures, which I think is a fantasy some cling to.

To be earning something from my writing would have to be the greatest thing in the world, even if it barely covered a mortgage. I rent at present. It makes me miserable. I am only truly happy owning my own home, even if a lot of it is co-owned by a bank.

Selling a book - whatever the print run - would be heaven. And I've started thinking about that scenario again. Jaded and disillusioned as I sometimes get about the industry, there is still this microscopic - no -  nano-hint of hope in my brain.

You're probably aware (if you've read my snippets before) that I have an agent. She was quite ill in 2011, but is well into recovery now, and actively trying to seduce editors into looking at her undoubtedly fat list of manuscripts. One of them is mine. I daydream about her dialogue with one of said editors..."You must read this one first," she says. "This one will blow your socks off," she says. "Don't look at another submission until you've read this," she says. Oh, and I just love how warmly she says it, and how the editor's eyes widen with anticipation. This then, she thinks, is the one we've been waiting for, to put this company back in the limelight.

I love my daydreams. For a while, I believe. We writers have to be the most optimistic people on the face of the earth. But you knew that.

It's now one year since I completed my last book. Enough is enough. This painting has to stop. It's a substitute for my real work. I hope I have better news next time.

Why I'm Not Writing the Fifth Novel

Most of you know by now that I also paint. I've bored you often enough with the little frustrations that brings - I call it Creative Duality - but it was once far more than that.

When I was much younger, I wanted to be a serious jazz singer, and performed professionally a number of times, mostly in down-at-heel pubs. I didn't care for the road trips, or my audiences, for that matter. (And my mother wasn't too pleased with my career choice.) Perhaps if I had found that perfect little club, things would have been different. In any case, I am far too private to have enjoyed that life. My thought that I quite liked the idea of being an actor was also nipped in the bud around then. Public scrutiny isn't something I long for. (I've mentioned that before.) I can handle a blog, or one of  my books in a book store, but standing on a stage? Oh, my...very scary stuff.They say most of us fear public speaking (for me, just standing) almost more than death itself. When you're very young, you're supremely brave - witness my stint at singing. These days, I'm a total wallflower. I really don't want it any other way.

Then I decided it would be great to actually play jazz, and took up the flute. (I would be part of a group, and could hide behind the trombonist, couldn't I?) I wanted so much to be a professional musician, to be part of that life, both classical and jazz. Musicians are fascinating people, truly doing what they love. That only lasted until I ran out of money and couldn't pay my rent, so pawned the flute. I have another one now (after many years) but still can't play much on it, having forgotten the Haydn that I perfected at the conservatorium. Still I promised myself that I would dedicate a regular amount of my time to practice. So why does the flute case look so dusty?

But I always kept up with my painting and writing, dividing my time fairly equally. Now I find I can't do both. It occurs to me that when I paint, I create characters and scenes just as I do with my fiction. I have the bare bones of an idea as I sit down, and then let the thing develop. Exactly the way I am with my novel-writing.

I'm told that my syndrome (because along with the arts, I'm also obsessed with the environment, history, philosophy and world affairs) is called Polymathy. It's an ugly word. A classic Polymath is extremely clever, probably qualified in all the sciences, as well as able to compose and play memorable music, write poetry...possibly turning out the odd oil painting or two when he or she has a spare hour. So not having quite that much talent, or formal education, I guess I am a Generalist with Polymath leanings.

So this is an apology of sorts. I have done no writing. Painting almost a picture a day these last few weeks means I've no inclination to switch to the novel. I jump out of bed with the same excitement I usually have when I'm deep in a book, of course. Otherwise I'd stop doing it.

I have sold a painting. One lone painting. That's okay. That's one more than I've done with any of my books. (I've heard nothing from my agent for a couple of months.)

Just wanted to stop by. You know where I am. You can always check out my art blog link if you want to know what I'm up to.