WRITING
Statistically Most Writers Are Merely Feeding Their Addiction
Why our writing is sometimes little more than a game of chance
Think about the sheer numbers of writers, both new and veteran, who write each day on this platform. Now ask yourself a question. Statistically, are you writing to make some serious coin, or are you merely feeding your addiction?
I know. It’s a pretty hardboiled question, but it deserves a little introspective thought. And never being one who writes with filters on, I guess I’m just as qualified as the next writer to weigh in on this.
Most of us writers who’ve been here a while know the drill. We pay our monthly or annual dues, and for that meager outpouring of money, we get to post pretty much what we want and when we want.
And many of us do just that.
But there’s a couple of trains of thought on why we do what we do, and I’d like to share them from my perspective. It may or may not jive with your thoughts, but then again, it just may.
I’ll admit, at the beginning of my journey here I was interested in the money. It was what brought me here, and for a long time, heck, almost a year, it was what kept my butt in the seat in front of my computer. What I never stopped to realize was the enormous number of brother and sister writers who were doing the same thing.
I’ve read many times where it’s not a competition between all the creatives here, but if you stop to think about it, it is. Not a competition to determine who’s a better artist, or who makes the most money. It’s a competition for the readers.
We want the readers to read our work. We need these readers to read our work. But the brutally cold reality of it is, there are only so many readers to go around.
And as writers flock here in droves, dreams of manna falling from the skies filling their heads as they begin to pour their work out, statistically the opportunity of establishing a large reader base dwindles.
It happens, folks. You know it does.
I’ve read so many pieces by fledgling writers who write about the one-percenters and the seven-percenters and then the rest of the writing flock. One thing I sense in almost every single piece is a sense of shock.
Yes, shock as if to say, “I never realized there were so many other writers all vying for the same reader base as I.”
Unfortunately, once the realization hits them (and it will), very few have the stamina and endurance to continue playing what they consider to be a fool’s game.
We have this burning desire to not just break, but shatter, the damned glass ceiling over our heads that’s been keeping our writing career down.
Conversely, there are many (including myself) who have this addiction. Like a gambler who’s looking for that next high, we write. We write because, for some damned reason, we can’t, not write. We write because if we weren’t writing, we’d be without definition. Yes, our writing defines us, to ourselves and others, precisely who we are.
But we also have hope.
We write, hoping our next piece might be the one to go viral. We write, secretly thinking we’ll create a piece that tops the charts and breaks us into the vaulted one percent of money makers.
We have this burning desire not just to break, but shatter, the damned glass ceiling over our heads that’s been keeping our writing career down.
And we do the math. And it’s the math that breaks us down and leaves us morose, pissed off and frustrated. It’s the math of our self-worth we assign to our effort gauged against the revenue streams we’re achieving.
Let me give you a few examples of mathematics a lot of writers perform weekly, monthly, and sometimes several times a day.
Let’s say your perceived value of your worth based on hourly compensation as a writer is $20.00 an hour. Yeah, some of you are probably telling yourself there is no way you’d work for such a low dollar per hour.
But hear me out.
So, the average writer here can crank out a five-minute read in about two hours. Now, some of us write much faster, some of us much slower, but on average, it’s about two hours.
I’m pretty sure you’ve already done the math, right?
So you spent $40.00 (in effort) to crank out a five-minute piece. Let’s say you do that daily, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty days (you took five days off for a mental meltdown) a year. That’s $14,400 worth of effort.
You’re with me so far?
Oh, and let’s not forget the $5.00 a month or $50.00 a year you pay to have the privilege of writing here. Consider that sunk cost. For the year, you have either $60.00 or $50.00 in sunk costs and another $14,400 worth of effort costs. Either $14,450 or $14,460, depending on how you pay your dues.
How many of us make that much a year writing solely on this platform?
I’m not talking about your side gigs. Including them in your revenue stream would skew the point I’m trying to make. From a purist viewpoint, let’s continue to compare apples to apples.
Unless, you are one of the only seven percent of the writers who routinely breaks the $100.00 a month barrier, or Lord bless you, a member of the one percent crowd who’s knocking down a six-figure income, you writing on this platform must be for reasons other than money.
Think about it.
Only seven percent of the thousands and thousands upon thousands of writers here routinely break the $100.00 ceiling. One percent of the same thousands upon thousands of writers here make a respectable living at it.
Again, let me ask you a question, and I’ll use myself as an example.
Why are you writing here?
If you’re not a member of the seven percent (me not lately) or the one percent club (me not ever), why are you still here writing? I have the answer because I’m living this addiction just as much as anyone else.
I’m feeding my addiction.
I’ve long ago given up hopes for cash and glory.
Long ago.
Now, I write to feed my addiction to writing. Yes, there seems to be still that spark of hope burning inside promising me if I stay at it long enough, if I continue to yank the lever of that one arm bandit enough times, I’ll hit that jackpot.
Each time I send one of these pieces out, a tiny bit of hope goes out with it. Floating along, sending me back a progress report, eventually growing dim and flickering out. Until the next one that I write leaves the dock, carrying its passenger of hope.
Yes, my writing is addictive, and so is my hope that one day I’ll break the ceiling and rise above it.
But I’m not so insane (a little but not totally) that I’m not willing to recognize the fact I’ll never break that ceiling. So, again, it breaks down to feeding my addiction. It’s my love of writing, my intense desire to talk to all of you, to get a little bit of feedback from you, and to do it all over again tomorrow.
I know, and a lot of you do know as well statistically, I’m merely feeding my addition to write.
But hey, I suppose there are worse things I could be addicted to, right?
Thank you so much for reading. You didn’t have to, but I’m certainly glad you did.
Let’s keep in touch: [email protected]
© P.G. Barnett, 2020. All Rights Reserved.