CREATIVITY | WRITING

No, I Don’t Want to Make Money

Is there a “creative people who don’t want to make money” union I can join?

No, I don’t want to make money. I just want to play. I want to play with my words and my friends. I want to build worlds. Please can I just make things? I don’t want to think about how much they’d cost. I don’t want to sell them. I don’t want to exchange paper for my soul. So no, I don’t want your money.

I want to worship. I just want to sing and dance and jump with my sentences. I want to enjoy them. To look my paragraphs in the eye and get to know them. I want to know what aches them. What pains they’re trying to hide in the spaces between their words.

I need to know where they come from. And I can’t do so if I’m tormented by the grey cloud of capitalism that hangs above me.

“Do more,” he says.

You’re not enough,” he goes on.

Well, I’m over it.

I should be allowed my indulgences.

I am a creative person after all. I could be the next Leonardo Da Vinci for all we know. Creative people are god’s gift to society. The government — and I’ve said this before but no one listened — should allocate full-time surrogates to every creative person. We shouldn’t have to worry about cooking or cleaning or dating. We should have people to do these things for us.

We should be left alone to finetune our craft. To simply create.

I just want to create.

I just want to make art without worrying about emptying my bowels or buying food. Or meeting hot guys. Or having kids.

Is this too much to ask?

Who can I talk to to make this happen? Is there a “creative people who don’t want to make money” union? And how can I join it? You can’t tell me I am the only one who feels this way.

I’m tired.

I just want to glorify my words: To eternally be in devotion to the gods of my craft. I want to appease them. To create space for them. To empty my insides until I’m the perfect specimen for their will.

I just want to experiment. To try out new things. To follow the creepy trails my art leaves behind. To skip and hop into the darkest of alleys. I want to follow my art into the void. But I can’t do so.

Haven’t you heard? I have to write for money.

I’m always anxious. My lawd, I’m always confused.

Am I writing enough? Am I creating enough? Should I learn other skills? Can I afford to pick up a new craft? But my creativity needs other outlets. I have songs in my bloodstream. There’s music in my veins. But there’s no time. There’s no time, Assumpta. You’re an adult now. You have to make money.

So now, I am off to make money — money I don’t want to make. Please send help. I’m not okay.

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Assumpta Nalubowa is a professional feeler of emotions. Every time she feels an emotion — any emotion — , a leaf on the lemon tree outside her bedroom window turns into a one hundred dollar bill. Check out more of her work here. If you’re not a medium member, click on the link below to join Medium.