The Salamander

Every young writer like you, my friend, dreams of getting rich and famous through his art. A writer who claims he isn’t doing it for the possibility of fame and fortune isn’t much different from a blogger who claims he’s not doing it for the attention: they’re both lying curs. Oh, yes, it’s about fame and fortune. I’m not saying that the need for self-expression isn’t a big part of it, but the overpowering desire for wealth and recognition is as much an incentive as the desire to make art. Who wouldn’t want to have more money than he can spend? Who wouldn’t want teenagers lining up to suck his cock like it was the golden rod of Jehovah? You may go to bed with an empty belly, but it is your dream of being a fucking rockstar that feeds your heart, isn’t it?

The sad fact, though, is that writing for a living sucks. The hungry young writer isn’t hungry because it’s cool. He’s hungry because he can’t sell shit. Every young writer, at one point, has heard of this. Every young writer, at the back of his mind, knows that this is true. Yet you stubbornly refuse to accept this. You think that that one in a jillion chance of actually getting a break and becoming successful through it is yours by destiny.

Others take a more realistic approach towards their desire to make a living as a writer. They get day jobs in call centers and other such places as devoid of art as my perpetually grimacing asshole, thinking that this is just a stepping stone; a rung in the ladder that would lead to their dreams.

Let’s take a look at your chances from an objective point of view, shall we not?

You write poetry. And short stories. And vignettes. And essays. You may even be working on that best-selling novel of yours that would enlighten the world about the true state of the human condition. Good for you. Now, think about this: who the fuck would want to read them? I look around me and I don’t see any arthouse bohemians frolicking about like butterflies on an acid trip. I see pedicab drivers, fish sellers, government employees, construction laborers, maids, factory workers, and others of that ilk. You won’t sell that collection of poetry, good sir. You’re better off writing horrible romance novelettes that Inday likes reading so much. That shit sells, man.

But not much. Usually, a publishing house would hire you to write two of those pocketbooks that I wouldn’t even wipe my ass with. You have to submit your manuscripts within a month’s time, after which they’ll pay you about seven or eight thousand pesos. Way after. Like when they get around to publishing and distributing them. They won’t even give you complementary copies, so don’t even bother asking about royalty. I know eight thousand pesos a month doesn’t grow on trees, man, but it’s not much either. You’ll be better off in a call center. They even have dental plans, if you can dig that.

You think: eight thou a month wouldn’t be so bad if I can get a writing assignment from one of those glossy magazines too. You’d be right if you’re shallow enough to appreciate a whopping two thousand pesos as additional income. You won’t even get that within the same month that you finished your article. Magazine pre-production starts at what, two months before the issue is published? That means your piece would get printed about two months after you’ve submitted it. You’d since be long dead from starvation to be able to appreciate your byline.

Never mind fame and fortune. If you really want to make a living as a writer, then print is not the answer. What you really want to get into is something that everyone consumes every single day. Something that has a semblance of gainful employment and steady income. Something so bad there’s no way in this thrice-blessed earth that it can’t sell.

Television.

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Writing for a Living Sucks Part II: Television