I remember hearing an anecdote attributed to Robert Bloch (if I remember correctly), the author of Psycho. Apparently he said something like, "When I left school I knew that I faced a choice: work or starve. I decided to combine the two by becoming a writer."
Although I've got my borrowed dongle working, the fact is, it isn't working very well at all, and I'm losing connection every five minutes or so, often even more frequently. This is making work and flat-hunting very difficult, but there's nothing to do except persevere.
I managed to send a few e-mails off in response to notices on Craig's List earlier today, before the connection became completely untenable for a while. Then I made myself a sandwich for late lunch and watched lines of ants marching in from the yard. Just as I was finishing my sandwich, my telephone rang. Someone was calling in answer to one of my e-mails.
"Well, what do you need to know?" she asked.
"Is there internet connection? That's the most important thing."
She said that there was, because there was a phone line. I wondered if this meant I could get a wireless connection or not. I felt too ignorant to start asking specific questions.
"How much is the rent?" I asked. I couldn't remember which flat it was.
"Eleven hundred a month."
"Ah. That might be a bit outside my budget." In fact, I was sure it was utterly outside my budget. "I thought I'd checked the price before writing."
"It was in the notice. What is your budget?"
The fact is, I'm not entirely sure, since it depends how much I can get on housing benefit. But I do know what others are able to get on housing benefit in London. I wasn't sure whether to mention housing benefit at this stage anyway, since so far it has ended nascent negotiations.
I gave some idea of what I thought my budget was. She sounded surprised and repeated the figure as if in disbelief.
"I think you'll be lucky to get just a room for that much," she said.
"Sorry." I had no idea how to end the conversation, which clearly had to be ended, and I was filled with shame. Not for the first time it occurred to me that I should never have been a writer, that any vocation that could not secure a person a place to live was of itself something to be ashamed of. Again, not for the first time, I saw a lifetime of ignominy and insecurity stretching out before me, only to be relieved by that which eventually relieves all.
(During the writing of the last paragraph, I lost internet connection again – and for complicated reasons, I can only do anything on this computer via the internet – and could not regain it for perhaps an hour. I hope this ratio of five minutes connected, one hour disconnected is not going to continue.)
“”Sorry.” I had no idea how to end the conversation, which clearly had to be ended, and I was filled with shame. Not for the first time it occurred to me that I should never have been a writer, that any vocation that could not secure a person a place to live was of itself something to be ashamed of. Again, not for the first time, I saw a lifetime of ignominy and insecurity stretching out before me, only to be relieved by that which eventually relieves all.”i can echo that wholeheartedly. i hope you do better than i did. these professions, writers and painters are just not in the pink in our time. too many people doing the same thing. to win would be like winning the lottery.
Well, there was a time when I had to walk to the nearest public library to get on-line. Eager to check my mails, I got in great shape though by doing the frequent walks back and forth.
R John Hayes writes:One of the problems is not JUST that there are too many people doing this, but that there are so many of them willing to do it for nothing, or next to nothing. It comes back to the idea that any writer will do, which is a truism in the minds of many people who are in a position to pay us (in the collective sense) to write. When they very quickly discover that many “writers” will sell their souls to see their precious work in print, the prices come down. As would be the case if one could get a good new working car for $300. The prices on the rest of them would come way down, except for the top end cars, the Rolls Royces, the Stephen Kings. Don’t get me wrong, I am as aware as anyone of the frisson of seeing one’s work in print. But I am also aware of the frisson of getting a significant cheque in the mail a few days later. The latter is better than the former. And considerably more authentic.
I wonder if it’s possible to combine the bastardry of say, landlordism, with the arts. Sort of like, “Buy my paintings, or I’ll break yer legs!”. Didn’t Ayn Rand write about this?
It feels to me like too many people have too much say in the world of publishing and literature who don’t care about publishing and literature. In fact, it’s almost exclusively these people who have any say.And, strangely, it seems to me that the people with the worst attitudes are working at the lowest rungs of these industries; and it’s these people who are the first line of defence, so to speak. Frank Zappa used to rant about this. That tea boy is going to try his damndest to make sure his boss doesn’t get your demo.
Originally posted by I_ArtMan:i can echo that wholeheartedly. i hope you do better than i did. these professions, writers and painters are just not in the pink in our time. too many people doing the same thing. to win would be like winning the lottery.A lottery is exactly what it is. Reflecting on this recently, I’ve even been tempted to start buying lottery tickets.Originally posted by lesoldatperdu:I wonder if it’s possible to combine the bastardry of say, landlordism, with the arts. Sort of like, “Buy my paintings, or I’ll break yer legs!”. Didn’t Ayn Rand write about this?I’m sure that some form of this is being practised by someone at the moment, but I can’t think of an example.Originally posted by solid copper:Well, there was a time when I had to walk to the nearest public library to get on-line. Eager to check my mails, I got in great shape though by doing the frequent walks back and forth.I might have to do something like this. There is a place near here – the only problem is the way I work, which is… For instance, when I’m on the phone to someone, I find it very hard to stay in one place. ‘Home’ is a more productive workplace for me than ‘office’.Originally posted by anonymous:One of the problems is not JUST that there are too many people doing this, but that there are so many of them willing to do it for nothing, or next to nothing.I do, sincerely, believe that there are currently more writers in the world than there are readers. People look at me oddly when I say this, but it seems like, perhaps partly because of the internet, everyone has bought into some version of the idea that we all have a novel in us. In theory I don’t object, but it seems to be manifest as a kind of selfish tourism in creativity, with people writing who have no actual interest in the world of writing. I think it was a dictum of Lawrence Miles that no one should have any say in a matter if they don’t actually care about it. It feels to me like too many people have too much say in the world of publishing and literature who don’t care about publishing and literature. In fact, it’s almost exclusively these people who have any say.
Originally posted by anonymous: getting a significant cheque in the mail coming across a new word like frisson gives me the same feeling of excitement.
Originally posted by quentinscrisp:A lottery is exactly what it is. Reflecting on this recently, I’ve even been tempted to start buying lottery tickets.me too. that would double the chances of a real income. i did it once and won back my dollar. that was months ago.my wife worked at doubleday as a full editor as you know. she always dutifully read all submissions she could. but she never caught up with the pile.
On the bright side: your pain and misery makes for good reading.Looking forward to reading the next entry in your adventures of house hunting.
Then you should enjoy part three… Now I must have breakfast and shower and wonder what on Earth I’m going to do next.
As an addendum to my last comment, I was thinking, recently, about something I remembered Billy Childish talking about in an interview — he was suggesting that professional artists should be banned, because they were becoming too precious and insular. I think one of the problems with fans of art becoming artists is that they can end up like Quentin Tarantino, making films that are just pastiches of other films; it can all get a bit self-absorbed and derivative. A detached amateur has an advantage in the sense that he isn’t relying on the same canonical points of reference as the professionals.