Writing for hire

Earning money from words can corrupt creativity

My first published work, from which Mark and I earned about $60. Published in 1979 by Hermes Free Press, San Francisco

I first made money from writing when I was 12 years old, and sold a poetry chapbook I’d written with my friend, Mark (now named Josh), in a Lawrence, Kansas headshop named Strawberry Fields. The place smelled like patchouli and fruit candy and was run by a group of long-haired 20-somethings who loved the idea of 6th grade poets doing their thing. We sold about 60 copies at 50 cents a piece, with no upfront costs. I wish that I’d never tried to sell my writing again. Selling writing is a soul-damaging activity.

Now, 53 years later, I have sold hundreds of thousands of words at prices ranging from $.25 to $10 per word. For most of that money, I have compromised my creative self. Generally, when I haven’t compromised by trying to meet the needs of the market, or an editor, my words haven’t sold. And since I’ve made my living as a writer for over four decades, I’ve compromised a lot. I’ve written many words that I didn’t want to write.

I cough when I’m tense or anxious. I’m coughing as I write this.

After college, I was accepted into the master’s writing programs at two universities. The two heads of the creative writing department at the University of Mississippi South Station, Hattiesburg, were fantastic fiction writers who shared the last name Barthelme. I admired them. They tried very hard to recruit me into their program, based on the fiction I sent them. At the same time, Stanford University offered me a slot in their journalism program, based on nonfiction writing I sent them.

I faced the choice of going for a Masters of Fine Arts or a Master’s in Communication . At the urging of people who said Stanford was more prestigious, I went there. That led to a wonderful career in journalism, with trips all over the world, but it also led me into a relationship with words that was constantly defined by commerce. I continued to write fiction, though no one wanted to publish it. And I have always wondered what my life would be like today if I’d gone to the University of Mississippi and focused on fiction writing instead of journalism.

At the moment, I am still making my living as a writer. I ghost write, mostly. I feel fortunate that I’ve been able to do this work. Yet, my hope for the future is to never again have to make money as a writer. I want to avoid the compromises that necessarily come with that. As I think of the future, I imagine working only on projects that are creatively driven. Projects that I believe in. Projects that have nothing to do with money, and everything to do with expression of a vision. I believe I will find great fulfillment as a writer in the coming years, following this ideal. But I’ll probably also be broke.