I had a birthday last week and turned 37, which is a nothing age as much as it’s something of one. I’m more interesting to myself the older I get, increasingly uninterested in whether or not others find me interesting, and much less concerned with being liked. All of this, generally, keeps me at peace with myself. I couldn’t have envisioned this mindset in my twenties, but that’s not really what that decade is for. I used to worry the edges of that particular time—which felt so integral to my person—would soften with the further passing of it, but what I’ve found is they’ve become sharper, easier to articulate. There’s an intensity and focus that was not so much absent in my earlier years than it was shaped by a different perspective. Now, it’s been shaped again. For the most part, I enjoy who I am, and when.
Much of that period of growth happened while working as an author. It’s surreal to think of my twenties being folded into the publishing industry and to think of myself being folded further into it, still, on my way to middle age—I hope. I know how hard I’ve worked to have made it this far, but there’s an element of the miraculous; publishing has also been much altered in that time, and continues to be. I’ve been contemplating these things a lot lately, the state of overall book sales being what they are, add to that the end of Buzzfeed News, Vice News Tonight, Paper etc, and now the writers strike.
It’s hard to be a writer, not only creatively, but, as the W.G.A.’s statement reminds us, existentially speaking. It is hard to be a writer in ways we are often discouraged from speaking on, for fear of seeming ungrateful for the work we’ve been given by people who—we understand—are also working hard for us, and at the mercy of the same shifting landscape. The subtle and overt reminders of our disposability and replaceability are ever-present and enforce such fearful silence that when the conversation finally turns to fair wages and compensation, of the correction of unsustainable working conditions and hostile working environments, we are usually rewarded with the question of our true and real worth, as though such expectations are disproportionate to our contributions to the industries that need and run on us. Last month, “The Bear” won the W.G.A. Award for Comedy Series. O’Keefe went to the ceremony with a negative bank account and a bow tie that he’d bought on credit.
Certainly, those contributions are worth more than that.
I’ve felt a sea change happening my side of the desk as a result of all this upheaval; a willingness between authors to be more transparent with one another in a professional space that is intentionally opaque because most creatively-focused businesses prefer when its talent does not have enough information to treat it like one. We share the demands of an industry whose relentless determination to keep up with and anticipate the idea of its audience can end up neglecting what vital connective tissue between consumers and writers it already possesses: the contents of what they’re selling, the books themselves. We analyze the efficacy of book marketing strategies that de-emphasize the readers who read them, and social media approaches that have shifted from using those platforms to feature the work to using the work to feature those platforms. The existing disparities this has exacerbated would make you weep, if you could cry over books you don’t know about. And don’t get us started on AI.
These are not petty complaints, but conversations driven by the deep love we have for the work, the people we work with, and in the spirit of our mutual success and long-term survival. The consequence as we’re seeing it: a widening gap between art and the audience it’s intended for. (And, presumably, that profit.) We talk about that gap, lament the stories and writers we will lose and have already lost to it. We wonder what more will break before, and if, it can be fixed. I know that many of us will continue to work for as long as we can in spite of it; authors do not have a union. But when colleagues ask me my thoughts on whatever this wild ride puts before and expects from them, I’ve gotten into the habit of asking them who it really serves. Who is this serving. The answer isn’t always as obvious as it might seem.
If you’ve been with this newsletter for a while, you know I love writing more than just about everything. I feel it is my purpose. I love being an author and the people publishing has surrounded me with, those good and passionate people, and the wonderful opportunities our combined efforts have created. I’m grateful. But working in entertainment or creative fields—both in front of and behind the scenes—often comes with a glossy veneer that is upheld by talking around the fact our livelihoods have always been at stake, that we’ve never been able to afford not to take this very seriously.
So all that said: preorder or buy an author’s book when you can. Invest in your favorite journalist in their independent writing pursuits if you’re able. Stand with the W.G.A. because the alternative is unacceptable. You may never know the extent of how much a writer needs it, but when they’re thanking you for your support, at the very least know how deeply, and how truly, they mean it.
Purchase I’m the Girl.
Preorder the paperback edition of The Project.
Thank you for your support.
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* Newsletter title and subtitle from Liz Phair’s classic anthem Shitloads of Money.
How awful. Everyone deserves to be paid a fair wage and have job security.
It's disgusting the lack of value that is sometimes put on the art or artist, I don't know if it's the same now (I hope it's not) but years back new writers were submitting stories to online journals for free, sometimes even paying for the privilege to submit. And that was the norm. Some how we had all learned that this was how it was, you gave your work away to get a publishing credit to build up a resume. Short stories that took hour, weeks, months of hard work. I know that this is a different kettle of fish than what your article was about but that's the memory it jogged inside me, how undervalued the right to an income for a writer can be, and maybe how deeply and far back this is imbedded.
On a happier note: Happy Birthday 🥳 May all your birthday wishes come true ❤