The Guardian piece Louise posted on my Facebook Timeline, The Guardian, might appear, at first
glance, to suggest that we're all rich. You know - the classic rich, white, middle class majority.
Oh, whoops! Did I say majority? Well, them, anyway. And believe me, as the writer says in her
piece, there are entitled, middle class hobbyists out there, supported in a variety of ways
including working husbands, but also many, many writers who have other jobs. The only reason I'm
able to do this job is because I was lucky enough to have no mortgage to pay, as my late husband's
aunt had paid it off when she died. But the reason I HAVE to do this job is because I have no
other income.
Late DH and I were never brilliant with money. We did some smashing jobs, but none of them
actually paid well. Our children have followed faithfully in our footsteps. And frankly, I consider
myself bloody lucky. Most of the time I can support myself and even any boomeranging
offspring that appear for the odd fortnight.
Just occasionally, this all gets a bit on top of me. Such as learning that my new publisher won't
be paying me until July. Now I know received wisdom states that it is terribly non-U to discuss
money, but sorry, folks, sometimes you have to. I need people to know why I can't do things
sometimes. Like go on holiday. Or to conferences. Or even to speaking gigs, which the
organisers always tell me will "raise my profile" and that I shall be able to sell some books! Well,
the amount of books I'd probably sell would maybe pay for a cup of tea and a bun, and rarely do
these bookings offer to pay, even the fairly well known book festivals. Yes, it's wrong, and at the
beginning of my career as an author (not as a writer - that's different) I'd willingly go dashing off
to various parts of the country without even getting expenses. But now? I would rather keep
what I have to pay for essentials and the moderate comforts of home.
For instance, today my PLR has come in. This is Public Lending Right, which we get once a year
for all the borrowings of our books made over the last twelve months. It has saved my life more
than once, and today I immediately paid for my recent delivery of coal, my car tax for a year and
booked an MOT for next week. Oh - and my granddaughter's birthday present. Very self indulgent,
all of them. But this why I write books - because I can actually afford to buy coal, keep my car on
the road (just) and buy my grandchildren birthday presents. I can manage to pay for the landline,
keep my mobile topped up, pay my Sky subscription and my gas and electricity bills and my council
tax. I can even indulge my small vices - not to excess, but a bottle of Scotch a week? - and until fairly
recently, buy a few new clothes. (Warning - don't lose a lot of weight unless you're rich. Your wallet
will not love you.)
So there you are. The real life of a writer. I'm not moaning - as I said, I consider myself very lucky. If
I have to work, at least I'm lucky enough to do this. But this is also why I, and a lot of my fellow
authors, worry like mad with every new book. Will they like it, the publishers? Will I ever get another
contract? Will I be able to eat next year?
Frankly, it's a bloody silly way to earn a living...
