Working Artist

I know I haven’t written in my type pad in about a week. I haven’t been that busy just lazy. The other day as I struggle to awake and drag myself to my current “temp” job, I had an epiphany. The main problem with my life in the last three years is my ability to keep a job. I have no problem getting jobs, the problem is showing up and not quitting a day or two later.

Now every morning when I don’t want to awake I’m giving new meaning to the term “suffering for my art.” Everything costs money. My weblog and website cost money. To buy ink for my printer and the paper cost money. As a professional writer, I’m not really bringing in that much money yet, so I have to work. I have to suffer for the art.

I always thought of a job as a place that people went to die like an old folks home. I consider jobs a place where people gave up their souls and identity for a check. So of course I never wanted a job. I wanted freedom. I wanted to wake when I woke up and do what I wanted every day. I didn’t want to answer to anyone. I didn’t want the corporate politeness.

The only problem with my dream was that you can’t pay bills with idealism.

And I was also selfish. I didn’t want to push anyone else’s agenda but my own. I wasn’t a team player. I only cared about my issues. So my “irresponsible” state of mind made me a terrible employee, therefore, constantly broke.

The other morning, barely tearing myself from the bed, not wanting to go to work I had an epiphany.

I guess you can say my entire adult life I wanted to be an artist because I considered it a carefree and rewarding life. I didn’t want a life worrying about money. I wanted a life where I formed my own shape, did as I please and was praised and rewarded for such free spiritedness. It was a child’s dream. The real world doesn’t work like that and since I was from the ghetto, grew up poor, if I wanted to eat; I was going to have to work one way or the other.

But the idea of a job contradicted my artist delusions. I didn’t want to be a 9-5 zombie. I was afraid that I might get stuck. I was afraid that I might get comfortable with the steady paycheck and forget about my novels and short stories.

Yet, no matter how much I tried to avoid reality, bartenders hate poor people. It’s my philosophy, the time when I feel the most pathetic is when I can’t tip at the bar because I’m broke therefore they always make my drinks weak. So the other morning when it was another struggle to get and go to work, I told myself that I’m now a “working artist.” I don’t know why I never considered being a “working” artist before. I guess I never planned for my failure.

I guess I didn’t want to be a practical artist. I didn’t want to care about money. I wanted fame and respect. I wanted to just concentrate on the art. But then again, I’m a poor black kid from the ghetto that is almost thirty years old. My “finding myself” time limit visa had expired a long time ago.

The truth, I didn’t want to get serious. I really wasn’t taking my writing serious. I never honestly considered making a living from being a writer. It seemed too far fetched. I hadn’t honestly considered making a living. Becoming a “working artist” means that I’m serious about my life for once. I’m serious about my art. I figured I had all the time in the world. But I’m living in the world now.

I lied to myself when I thought a real artist didn’t care about money.

I lied to myself when I thought a real artist didn’t have ambition.

I lied to myself when I thought a real artist wasn’t disciplined.

I lied to myself when I thought I didn’t care about money.

It always comes back to money. It’s a sad reality, but true. What is my worth? As a real artist that’s my task to figure out.

Growing up is hard to do. It’s the loneliness that’s hard. But that loneliness pushes us to secure our lives.

I like the idea of being a “working artist.” I’m not there yet, but it implies that I’m finally working. So every morning that I get up now and go to a job I only tolerate for my art, it isn’t so bad. It’s not going to happen for me if I just lie in the bed and dream about becoming an artist. I have to do the work. It takes money to make money. I’m not into starving. I like eating.

Comments

[Bernie]

In 2001, I took a 9-5 job after about a dozen years as a full-time, mostly struggling yet "working" actor. I arrived at that point after dodging bill collectors for most of those 12 years, not being able to see a doctor because I didn't have health insurance, not being able to buy new clothes or travel anywhere, and practically depleting all my savings. I wondered if I was a failure and a sellout to my art by having to go back to the security of "a real job."

About three months into the new job, I just happened to look at the salary-to-date line on my pay stub and realized that in 90 days I had earned more money than I had in all of 2000. Right then and there I made peace with the idea of traditional employment.

That starving artist stuff is way over-rated.

[Tyler]

Good shit!