I Made $373.16 from Writing This Year

That’s it — and that’s okay.

An entire year’s worth of writing on here, reflected in those five digits.

That’s my only source of income for this year. I don’t have a “legitimate” job. I don’t earn money elsewhere. Nor do I have substantial expenses at the moment such as a car or a house or a child (or an addiction to Sims 3 expansion packs. I shook that off back in 2015). But that is by no means enough to cover a month’s worth of rent. That’s not enough to live off. It’s not enough to be comfortable.

And honestly; I’m okay with that. It’s not at all what I was striving for, nor is it enough to cater to how expansive my appetite is, but it’s something. It’s not nothing. It’s more than a tenner, more than a hundred, and it’s a reminder that throughout this apocalypse, I kept writing. Sure, not as frequently as I had hoped. Not as meaningfully or as widely, but I did, I still posted, I kept going, I never once considering quitting. Which means I succeeded — however you choose to define that — because I did not quit. And that’s the only way to fail.

So I gained $373.16. But I wouldn’t have cared if I got $0.16.

Except wait: should I care?

I Don’t Write for Money

Don’t get me wrong; I like money. I wouldn’t say we’re best friends — in fact, we haven’t seen each other for a good couple years now — but we’re old pals at the very least. I understand it’s importance within the world and I understand it’s significance to the contents of my fridge.

But money is not my priority, nor has it ever been. And I know how privileged that makes me. That’s a side-effect of being lucky enough to be born within the family that I was. I am so fortunate to have always had the things I need, the things I want and then several things more than that, just because those in my life are the most generous, compassionate, really-good-at-choosing-Paperchase-stationary people in this or any neighbouring universe. I am so grateful that I am able to do the things I love irrespective of the finances they provide me.

However, I think sometimes that’s my downfall.

Because of this lifestyle of mine, I don’t push. I don’t desperately stride towards any profits or revenue because I don’t have that motivation — that pressure — shoving me forward. If something doesn’t pay, that’s fine. Because I at least got to write something, and that is payment enough for me. Passion is the currency that I trade in. But let’s face it, I need money. I would very much like to acquire it, as often as possible, doing so via a method that I very much like to do. If I could make a little cash from my writing, well, isn’t that the capital D, Dream?

But that just isn’t happening for me. And I think I know why.

I Don’t Write What People Want to Read

I try to post as frequently as possible. Sometimes the topics are a little scattered, I submit intermittently to various publications, and some things are backed by research, others solely by my incessant mind. But I always aim to get something posted at least five times a week.

Part of me – as in; every part – really wanted this platform to become my main, my only source of income. I wanted to thrive like those phenomenal writers you come across daily. The Matt’s and the Tim’s and the Melody’s. I wanted to earn enough to swallow back any financial fears amidst a mouthful of branded chocolate milk because finally, I can afford it.

I write poetry on here, once sometimes twice per day just to ensure I’m consistently getting content out there, but I know that will never get me much money. I write long-form articles, CNF, pieces regarding self-improvement and lifestyle and mental health. But I have such a moronic tone of voice that I know most publications are hesitant to accept me because I’m too childish to purvey anything serious. I don’t write clear-cut, to the point, easy-to-implement posts because that’s not the lens in which I perceive life. Those topics — personal development, productivity, mindfulness, etc — I just don’t focus on them the same way a lot of other people do. Not as directly, anyway. Whenever I address these kinds of things, I cannot do so without adding a little me into the matter. I don’t care about finances and business development and stress management, I care about novelty and peculiarity and unorthodox means of talking about things.

But a lot of readers don’t want that. They don’t want long-winded, eccentric narratives with characters and rhyming schemes and an onslaught of Robert Pattinson references — all just to find out how to improve their patience or their habits or their outlook on life. They want simplicity, accessibility, relatability.

I know all of this. I know exactly what I need to do to resolve it. I know what I need to strip back and what I need to add more of in order to attract a couple more readers. But often I find that I’m much too stubborn to alter my writing in order to align with this criteria. This is where I get stuck.

I Write For Me

I’m selfish.

I write what I love to write, first and foremost. Sure, I’ve freelanced in the past and written about pallet-racking, about Welsh eateries, about transportation around Greece. I’ve written for others — free and paid — and I’ve written things that I was not invested in at all. I’ve also written essays and dissertations and research projects, things that I wouldn’t say I was enjoying but things I knew were imperative to a bigger goal. And all of this has simply served to illuminate what it is that I truly desire: to write for me.

Don’t get me wrong, all I ever want to do is help people. I mean it. My mission statement in life is to be a good writer and good person. I want people to feel things from my writing, I want their lives to glimmer a little brighter, their hearts to flutter, their fingertips to tingle with inspiration. I want to bring a little light to their world, crisper pages to their story. I want to ink a smile right onto their beautiful, beaming faces. Everything we do as a species is in aid of improving existence for one another. But also; for ourselves, too. Which I guess is why I’ve so selfishly decided to do so only through the things that I love to write, to read.

And not just in terms of genre. Sure, I will always prefer to write fiction. But I also love self-expression, personal essays, relaying real life experiences and anecdotes. Within that, my favourite themes to cover are the unconventional, surrealist, interdimensional, impossible, abstract, metaphysical, odd, mind-bending notions such as multiverses and anthropomorphism and alternate realities and time and universal laws and the full, unlocked potential of our human mind. I love surpassing any “typical” human concepts and beelining straight for the weird stuff.

Yeah, I want to learn productivity. I want to develop my self-awareness. I want to be a grown up with good money management skills and beneficially structured activities. But I also know I love finding the most eclectic and niche ways of doing so to arrive there. I won’t simply write about 5 Ways to Improve Your Daily Habits. Instead, I’ll personify each habit, give it an identity, detail a day in it’s lifetime, let it fall in love, tear that love apart, watch as it’s coming of age story unfolds there on the page. I’ll get the reader to immerse themselves in an alternate version of themselves’ life and imagine how they do things. I’ll get them to chat to their reflection and discuss where things are going wrong. I’ll send them to the supermarket and envision what their habits would typically purchase. I don’t know why. That’s just what I do. How to Evict Your Dingy Habits from the Two Bed Flat of Your Mind.

And I think this is where I fall short a lot of the time, when it comes to views and reads and relatability. Because I don’t make it easy. I reference biscuits too much, Robert Pattinson too much, a supermarket Big Shop™ too much. But honestly, I’m reluctant to let go of my things. I em-bellish way too loudly and that can turn people away. I get weird, when most people are sick of life’s weirdness and are just seeking a little normality. I get childish, when all people want is a little reassurance from a couple grown-ups who know what they’re talking about.

If I want to make a little more money off my writing, I need to be a little less whimsical and a little more practical. I need to figure out how to strike that balance.

The Pros of Not Making Money.

Not caring about money has enabled me to locate and desperately cling onto who am I within my writing. It’s allowed me to write about what I love in the way that I love it and do so, repeatedly. It’s let me segregate the pressures of money making from the joys of storytelling.

But. There’s only so many times you can get rejected before it starts to sting a little. If Rejection (we call him Rej) is a sculptor — he’s not a very good one. He keeps chipping away at my soul.

The Cons of Not Making Money.

I sometimes feel like I’m alienating people.

I’ve had some of the loveliest comments, met some of the kindest people, been lucky enough to have readers who have not only read my stories, but thanked me for their existence — and part of me knows that that’s enough. That’s more than enough. That’s gold in a world full of copper. But I’m greedy, I want vibranium. I want to reach not just the world but the entire damn cosmos, I want to help people, all people, people who don’t care about space, people who don’t have a sweet tooth, people who order their groceries online. Even people who are Team Jacob. I want to reach more people.

But in doing so, that means I have to shed away a couple of my novelty layers — not bin them, just fold them up and stick them in a drawer for a little while — and be a little more useful. A little more comprehensible. A little more normal.

Right?

And Then There’s The Now.

So that’s what I’m going to do.

I’m going to suck it up and start researching what people actually find meaning in reading. What people learn from, what people love, what keeps people alive. Robert Pattinson is going to have to quarantine for a little longer, because sorry kid, I’m busy. I’m making a difference. Today, I stop writing for me and I start writing for you (*gestures gracefully at the entire planet*).

As much as I would love this to increase how much I earn within the next year, I don’t want that to be my leading motivation. Because the minute that becomes truth is the minute that all humanity is torn away. Anything fuelled solely by finance is pointless. Stories become mere text, void of meaning. I am aiming to do the very opposite. I want every sentence to have a purpose, every word to have a rightful place. I want a person — just one person — to be glad they spent three maybe four minutes of their time reading something I wrote because now life feels a little less heavy and a little more silky.

And if that makes me a little cash in the process, then that’s ace. Christmas is round the corner — oh wait no, it’s bloody lurking on the edge of the pavement, waving me over frantically. It looks mad — and I could certainly use it. But that’s not the kind of currency I’m bothered about. The value I am seeking is the value I can provide to others. Even if that means I stop bulk buying biscuits for a week or two.

I Write for You

So here I go. Writing for you. I sincerely hope I can do it justice. I sincerely apologise if I cannot. But regardless — I’m going to try.

If I can match that $373.16 for the coming year and improve just one human life (maybe a couple gerbils, too), then that’ll do me. That’s the only thing at the top of my Christmas list this year.

Oh yeah. And a treadmill.