A non-apology for the thing I didn’t say about Taylor Swift because I’m the problem; it’s me

I'm afraid we’ve already lost the lesson of the writer's strike. 

Last summer, Hollywood came to a screeching halt when first the writer's room and then the actors went on strike. A few months before these events unfolded, Sydney Sweeney made a statement about how she couldn’t afford a six-month break from acting. She was dragged on the internet for miles because everyone assumed that couldn’t be possible: she had just completed a bunch of movies, starred in a hit TV show, and amassed quite the social media following. Everyone assumed that since they were seeing her, that attention equaled wealth. 

The strikes beamed a light onto a little-known reality: the majority of the folks working in entertainment, whether it is film, music, or other, were living paycheck to paycheck. 

It seemed unfathomable, but it was true.

Yes, there are plenty of examples in our culture of ultra-wealthy actors and the elaborate lifestyles of rock stars. We’ve had it shoved on us by tabloids and paparazzi for decades, so it must be true. Over time, the presumption became that if someone was in a movie with Tom Hanks, who takes in excess of $20 million a film, those in supporting roles must be doing equally as well.

Instead, we learned that many of our icons must sell photo sessions at comic cons to keep a roof over their heads. 

It shouldn’t be a shock to any of us that the world of entertainment mirrors that of the rest of society; the top percent hold all the wealth while the working-class artists struggle to make it. 

Over the weekend, Taylor Swift dropped another album. As a father of two teenage girls, I was well aware of this upcoming event as debates began to swirl across the internet as to the exact moment the record would land. Shortly after midnight, I sent a text to the family group chat saying, “It happened,” and I received an immediate response that they were already well into listening. I was out with some friends, enjoying a well-needed night off. I opened my phone and posted a thought onto social media, because that’s what we all do. It simply said, “Taylor just dropped a new album, which is a great time to remind y’all to buy art from starving artists. Signed, a starving artist.”

Being the foolish eternal optimist, one might even go so far as to say a member of the tortured poet department, I assumed this would be a rather benign statement to make. An indie artist was reminding folks to support indie artists in the midst of yet another cultural moment. 

Golly, was I wrong.

I woke up to wild speculations that I was dissing Taylor or creating some false dichotomy where folks must choose between mainstream entertainment and indie art. By the afternoon, it was even being called into question if I should be allowed to qualify as a starving artist because I had a successful tour last year. I read through many of these comments, genuinely bewildered, wondering, “Are some folks conflating that my circumstances are comparable to one of the most successful artists of all time?”

If that sounds absurd, it’s because it is. 

The average attendance at my nearly sold-out tour was about 75 people. Some of the home shows were closer to 40, and the largest was around 120. I drove myself from each location to the next, no tour buses or PR team. No, it was just me telling stories while my daughter, who just turned eighteen, ran the merch booth. There wasn’t a craft service; we survived on Taco Bell. Most nights, we stayed at the local Days Inn, typically rolling in around midnight, before heading onto the next show first thing in the morning.

I drive a 2019 Kia Soul.

The windshield is cracked.

Listen, I’m not ignorant of the fact that I’ve experienced some success, and when I juxtapose my life now with my meager upbringing, it’s night and day. The difference between my life and the life of most of the indie artists I’m fortunate enough to call friends is we can’t take a break. Not a real one, anyway. Yes, my life is different now. I don’t typically worry about things like having food in the refrigerator or the lights being shut off due to non-payment. Guilty as charged. 

But there are lightyears between the “success” of a tour with an average attendance of 75 and of filling stadiums with a capacity of 72,500 people. 

Taylor never has to release another album again in her whole life. Tomorrow, she could wake up and say, “I don’t want to do this anymore,” and just not. She could also sit in the studio every day until the end of her life and release albums at midnight every six months. She can create, she can choose not to create, she can do what she wishes. Well, except for doing what I did the other night: sit alone in a bar unbothered for an hour while waiting for my friends to decide their next move. 

Tomorrow, I will sit in front of my computer to push forward a book that isn’t my favorite I’ve ever written because I have to release a book this year. If I don’t, or if it doesn’t do well, my life will get very bumpy. Am I starving today? No, but I sure as f+ck will be in six months if I don’t restructure a few things, find the focus that has seemed to slip away and get myself in gear. I love writing. I hate punishing. I wish I could just create art on whatever schedule I wish. Sadly, sometimes, I have to write things I’m not exactly thrilled about or promote merch that I’m not in love with. Because I am a working artist, so if I don’t create, I don’t eat. That is how most artists live. It is a rare thing to be a Taylor Swift who has the privilege to live to see a time they can do whatever the f+ck they want with their art. 

Or, as she put it, “I’ll tell you something about my good name; it’s mine to disgrace.”

I’m not complaining. I love my life. I’m a professional full-time author. That is amazing. When I complain about my job, it’s because it’s my job, and everyone complains about their job sometimes because it’s their job. I love what I do, and I would never want to do anything else, at least I don’t think I would, but then again, a decade ago, I would have said the same thing about the priesthood, so what the f+ck do I know?

This afternoon, a friend sent me a song from the new Taylor Swift album. There was no message clarifying as to why. Once I listened to it, it was clear why. I was driving to pick up a to-go order and pulled over to cry along the highway. This was our story. I knew this pain. I was dragged back by the neck into a past I had long forgotten. It was cathartic and real. 

Because that’s what good storytelling does, whether the teller is a billionaire or a barista. 

I wrote Southern Gothic. Whenever I am asked to describe what this means, I say, “the opposite of fantasy. I write worlds without clear villains or heroes; everyone is flawed and broken. I tell the gritty and sordid tales of a world devoid of anything magical where there are no gods or caped crusaders to rescue us from the plight of fentanyl overdoses and teen pregnancies.”

People are often shocked to find out that my favorite pastimes are watching shows like Idol of America's Got Talent. I don’t have a problem with movies or music that exist purely for the sake of being entertaining. As someone who writes about some really f+cked up sh+t, I need escapism; we all do. It’s okay that some things are just bubblegum. We are all entitled to a little tapping out every once in a while. 

My commentary on supporting indie artists was not a diss against Taylor Swift. No part of me was attempting to kick the Swifty version of a beehive. 

The pandemic was a wild time to be an indie artist. As the world attempted to restructure itself during lockdown, there were suddenly no more new shows on tv or live music in the venues. In large part, those who had the means to hide did, and that included a lot of celebrities that we relied on for entertainment. In many ways, it was indie artists who picked up the entertainment and escapism slack. Indie artists revolutionized doing at-home comedy shows and live concerts from living rooms. It felt, for a brief moment, like we had entered a type of renaissance.

As the world began to reopen and stadiums could once again be filled, society went back to the status quo. I get it; we missed this. I’m not judging. However, in the aftermath, I watched as many of my friends quietly quit their full-time entertainment jobs and went back into the rat race. One friend told me through tears on the phone, “I guess my music was just a stopgap until they could get back to the next Hot 100 release.”

We all enjoy the music and movies and books and plays and tv shows that we enjoy, and I’m not here to judge anyone for that. 

As I had hoped to do with a few words after midnight during the first meeting of the tortured poet department, support starving artists and indie artists and whatever artists you wish. Just don’t forget that that next big musician who will fill stadiums is sitting in a coffee shop right now singing their heart out, and you missed that show because you were too busy arguing with me in the comment section while wildly misinterpreting what I said. 

I wrote all of this because it’s sincerely important to me, but I am also silently hoping that some of my prose resonated enough to cause you to hit the subscribe button. That, my dear friends, is being an artist under late-stage capitalism. Because as authentic as all of these feelings are, I still need that $8 from you each month, and Taylor doesn’t. You know why? Because though the average show attendance was 75, I also walked into a venue with 17 tickets sold and four no-shows. That meant four folks not buying merch. That was a rough day; I almost had to sleep in the car that night. Fortunately, I’ve reached just enough success that right now, sleeping in the car if I don’t want to is probably not going to happen. So, if we are judging success based upon the bare minimum, I’m doing great. 

But there is no scenario under which Taylor Swift is sleeping in her Kia Soul off of a highway outside of Albuquerque. That isn’t a chastisement, just acknowledging a reality. Then again, we’ve reached a boiling point as a culture where anything less than full-chested adoration is considered condemnation. 

The core of this problem rests on the ideas we have about success and what that looks like. We’ve reached a point where we think attention equals cash, and that’s just not the case. Last year, I experienced a perfect example of this. I had a post go viral; it had over a million views and thousands of comments. I posted a link encouraging folks to buy my books if they liked the content; I sold one book. Later that month, I had a post with less than a thousand reactions and sold over a hundred copies. There isn’t a math to this thing, at least not one I can figure out. 

What I hope you take away from this is that for those artists you enjoy following on social media, it’s likely hand-to-fist for them. They are creating content as fast as they can, often acting as writer, producer, and editing room all wrapped into one. Same with your favorite indie authors and singers and poets and musicians and filmmakers. They are all doing the best they can, and they can’t take six months or six weeks or six days off. They’ve got to wake up tomorrow and create. 

Taylor Swift doesn’t. That isn’t a diss. It’s just true. That isn’t a commentary on her music, which I actually like; it was just a silly little pop culture-infused half-joke reminding folks that when they are done with Black Friday, remember Small Business Saturday. 

Enjoy her music. Listen to the album. Get excited for the drop at midnight. Speculate about all of the meaning of each carefully crafted word. Then, when you are done, walk down to your local venue or coffee shop and toss a couple of bucks in the bucket for that girl with the guitar that everyone is talking over, because one day you might not be able to afford a ticket to her show. 

Oh, and while you are here, hit the subscribe button so that one day, you can say, “Yeah, I was one of his supporters before his books really took off.” 

That’s what I was trying to say the other night, but because I didn’t say “also,” then I guess it’s me; I’m the problem, it’s me. 

Oh, there he goes. Playing the victim, again 🐍