Every weekday morning I go to my office and work. I write and rewrite, research, market, pay bills, answer letters, file, and read till my head hurts. Envelopes and e-mails go out. Rejections, acceptances, contributor's copies, and checks come in. I work hard. Although I don't punch a time clock, I'm rarely off duty, but most of the world seems to consider the writing part of my life as anything other than work.
My own dear father has often responded to my claims that I am busy working with, "Working at what? You don't work."
Ahem. Does this sound familiar to anyone? My father is from a generation and social strata that believe that work is for men who aren't afraid to get their hands dirty and women are supposed to be housewives. If women do have jobs, they are teachers, secretaries or nurses. As for me, I have no excuse for not cleaning the bathroom or buying groceries because hey, I don't work.
If you are just starting out as a writer, you have my sympathy. Sometimes it seems that the only people who understand what writers do are other writers. The only way to prove them wrong is to keep at it until you are too successful to ignore.
For a while, when I had a full-time job as editor of a local newspaper that my parents actually read--because I bought them a subscription--Dad almost conceded that I worked for a living. But then I went back to freelancing aka not working. At one point when my articles appeared in three different magazines at once, I brought copies to my father's house and plopped them down on the table. "Don't ever say I don't work." Then I told him how much I had been paid. He was semi-impressed.
But it didn't last, and it's not just Dad. People outside the writing world acknowledge my books but seem to think they happen magically overnight. They rarely notice the articles and short stories I produce. And forget about my poetry. Poetry? In fact, it seems as if lots of people see writing as a phase or a hobby, like when I used to do needlepoint. The fact that I teach one low-paying non-credit class at the community college impresses them more than anything I ever publish. If anyone asks my father what I do, he tells them I'm a teacher.
At the doctor's office a few weeks ago, an acquaintance I usually try to avoid shouted across the crowded waiting room, "Still writing?"
"Of course," I said, as people looked up from their magazines to see what all the noise was about.
She nodded with an expression that said, "How nice." Then she asked, "Are you teaching at the college this year?"
"Yes, I am."
"Good." Now she was impressed. Thank God, the nurse called me in then. I'd rather get weighed and measured and proven that I'm too short for my weight again than go through the "are you really working?" inquisition in front of all those people.
Once upon a time when I filed for unemployment, I made the mistake of telling the clerk I made a few dollars as a freelance writer. I was only looking for part-time work because I planned to keep writing. I watched as she scribbled a note on my form: "Refuses to seek employment. Application denied."
It's amazing how many people think writers don't really work. If you don't believe me, try getting a loan. I was shocked the first time a mortgage broker told me, "We're going to put you down as unemployed."
"What!" I cried, scattering papers all over the floor in my fury. But when she compared my fluctuating income to my husband's salary, benefits, retirement plan, and stock options, my numbers looked pretty puny.
The next time we applied for a loan, I provided a copy of my Schedule C and told them about my teaching and music gigs, but the loan officer still wrote "unemployed" next to my name.
Last month, my husband and I refinanced our house. This time, I was more hopeful. I was teaching, playing music at the church for pay, AND writing regularly for a local newspaper. Surely at least one of those would convince XXX Mortgage Company that the wife actually works.
Nope. The people who answered the phones at each place all said, "She doesn't work here." Well, no, to be honest, I only spend a few hours a week at each place. I do my real work in my real office at home. Beep. Doesn't count.
So, what is the moral of this story? Consider it a cautionary tale. If you are going to be a full-time writer, expect to prove your employment status over and over again. You can't just talk about writing; you have to do it. Store up clips, check stubs, and the names of editors who will vouch for you. Put as much money as you can in the bank, pay your bills on time so your credit record is clear, and keep accurate records of your income and expenses. If anyone asks, assure them that you are not unemployed; you are self-employed.
You might even want to give yourself a company name. Now you're an entrepreneur. Eventually, if you keep writing and publishing long enough, most people will get the idea. Except maybe your father, who only wants the best for you, and your cousin who hasn't opened a book since he left high school. And that lady at the doctor's office.
Just to be on the safe side, it wouldn't hurt to marry a millionaire.
Copyright 2006 Sue Fagalde Lick
About the Author: SUE FAGALDE LICK is a former newspaper editor turned full-time freelance writer. She has published four books, countless articles and many poems and stories. She teaches writing workshops online and at Oregon Coast Community College. Visit her web site at http://www.suelick.com.
Being a writer does not equal unemployed (even if nobody's paying you to do it)
