Artists are not Amazon, freeloaders, or the top of the capitalist food chain

Typically, the things I share are reflective of what’s going on behind the scenes in my life. Even when I’m just recycling memes I’ve harvested from around social media, they tell a story of where I’m at in my own space and mind. 

A few months ago, I began the process of writing a new book. For me, that looks a lot like laziness to the untrained eye. You might catch me sitting at a dive bar, people-watching as other humans do the dance of living their life. I observe as they experience birth and death, loss and grief, celebration and joy, romance and sex. 

Sometimes, I’ll lie pensively on my couch, listening to music. 

If you were on the other end of the bar people watching me, I might look like some dude enjoying a beverage and up to no good. 

I’m actually working.

A few months back, after attending the funeral of my best friend's brother, I sat in the back of the car as we drove from the wake to a bar and then back to our friend's house. Someone new to our group observed that I was being rather quiet.

My friend chimed in to say, “He’s just writing a book. Wait and see, someday this drive will be a movie.”

Those days when I’m looking like a leisurely layabout are when I’m doing some of my most difficult work. Writing is easy for me; I can do it in my sleep. Sitting there in front of the computer is the least challenging part of the job. It’s putting all those pieces together in my head that is the challenge. You see me over there putting another dollar in the jukebox while shooting a game of darts? I’m building the soundtrack I’ll listen to while writing my next bestselling novel. 

I shared a meme the other day that said, “I don't want to work in an office; I want to have a mysterious and wealthy patron who lets me occupy a wing of their manor in exchange for producing 2-3 paintings a year and attending extravagant social gatherings as a curiosity.”

I posted this as a reminder to myself about the strain and difficulties of being an indie author. The challenge of taking the gamble of producing your own work. If it succeeds, the spoils are yours, but if it fails, you assume all the risk. 

Like any good joke, someone had to ruin it by taking things way too seriously. In short order, someone commented, “Doesn't sound appealing at all. It also assumes that artists are freeloaders.” 

I’m sure the comment was intended to be in defense of artists, but it fell far short of the mark. I have quite a few friends who are painters, and they would be the first to tell you that producing three pieces of quality work in a year would be a master-level success. This type of patron arrangement would be many things, but freeloading wouldn’t be one of them.

I’m reminded of a mythic tale of how Harper Lee found a card from some friends under her Christmas tree back in 1956. When she opened the letter, it read, “You have one year off from your job to write whatever you please. Merry Christmas.” Four years later, To Kill a Mockingbird was released and has since sold over 40 million copies. 

Was that freeloading? 

Hardly, that was someone choosing to invest in the arts and, I might add, yielded a pretty solid return.

I can confidently say that I wouldn’t be where I am today without friends and colleagues who invested in me with their time, talent, and treasure. I would like to think that the art I have produced has also been a return on that investment, even if I have fallen a bit shy of 40 million units. 

Without someone patronizing the arts, think of all the works we wouldn’t have. The works of artists across every medium, from paintings to books to movies, were just some ambitious kid with a vision, and then someone said, “I see it, I can’t do it, but I know you can.”

***

Being a creative in an Amazon world is exhausting. The rate of production that the general public is now accustomed to is impossible for most artists. 

I can’t ship as fast. I can’t process returns as quickly. My ability for output can never be as speedy as the expectations. 

But, damnit if we don’t f+cking try. I’m an author, but if I want to keep bread on the table, I have to constantly find new ways to mention my books, produce new merch, plan exciting courses, and figure out how to fit in writing multiple articles and essays each week. 

I’m an author, but I am also:

Shipping and fulfillment department

Returns and lost items department

Management and event planning

Scheduling and systems processing

Production manager and editing team

Social media management and content creation

The guy who gets coffee and makes lunch

I’m the boss and the employee

Sometimes I see an email. Occasionally I don’t see something I should have. I often miss opportunities. I’m doing like twelve people's jobs. 

I am a freeloader in an Amazon world because the output of 2-3 works of art in a year just isn’t enough in a society that expects it to be faster.

***

Recently, I went to Florida for my little sister's wedding. I ended up staying a few days longer than planned. I could sense in my bones there was something more for me to digest, to learn, to experience before I packed my bags and headed back to Tennessee. A friend sent Tashina and me an invitation via text for a bonfire. 

Maybe this is the missing piece, I wondered. Could somewhere in those flying embers lay the final piece I need to tell the tale burning inside me? Could I borrow some of these flames to finally ignite the story I wish to tell? 

There was only one way to find out.

I sat in a dry rot lawn chair, breathing in the toxic fumes of pallets burning. The wafting scent of weed hovering in the air of what would certainly be one of the last nights cool enough for these kinds of events. Soon, the beaches would be packed with beers and bodies, and it would be another season before we would gather like this again. I soaked in all the delicious flavors of watching my wife flirting with her lover and as the flames kissed the skin of our friends. 

“What do you do for a living?” A stranger asked me, interrupting the writing I was doing in my skull. 

“I’m an author.”

F+ck, I thought instantly. Here it comes.

“I’ve always wanted to write a book!”

There goes the next couple of hours of my life; I just know it. 

Somewhere in the middle of the discussion, I opened my phone to type out a thought. They didn’t notice because I wasn’t really there. They were just talking into the void toward a warm enough body that it didn’t count as talking to themselves. Before they even knew it, I had posted a little joke to social media that read:

When someone asks an author what they do for a living and your response is, “I’m an author,” there are only two reactions:

1. “But what do you do to make money?”

Or

2.”I’ve always wanted to write a book,” and then you spend the next four hours saying “interesting” and “wow” while praying for the apocalypse to happen.

Within minutes of posting, I received my first chastisement, “Come on now, be kind.” I quickly asked for clarification of what was unkind about what I said. Basically, I was told that it’s my responsibility to sit there and foster this person as they try to figure out how to write their first book. Another person chimed in that my comment was “punching down.” 

I was unaware that indie artists were at the top of the capitalistic food chain. Over the course of my career, I’ve had attorneys, doctors, and millionaires belly up next to me to tell me the stories they think should be told. None of them has offered to pay me for my work, experience, or expertise. 

Now, I want to be very clear here; this isn’t about a fan approaching me or someone genuinely interested in the craft. This is about folks who don’t value your time and learning to set boundaries when that happens.

It’s akin to someone sitting down next to a stranger, only to find out they are a lawyer and asking them for free legal advice or hearing someone is a nurse, only to ask them about a mole they are worried about. It should be alright for folks to be off, to enjoy their time without having to discuss work.

I had someone approach me one time asking writing advice, and when I said, “Man, I’m sorry, but I’m just out enjoying my night out with friends but drop me a message.” He tried to start a fistfight with me, and the bouncer had to remove him from the bar. 

After this long debate in the comments about how I’m the rude one for not always wanting to talk about my work, I began to wonder, “Am I the a$$hole?”

On the drive back from Florida to Tennessee, we decided to break the trip up and stay at a hotel. When talking with one of the clerks at the front desk, I mentioned traveling a lot for work. Instantly, he responded, “What do you do?”

“I’m an author.”

“That’s cool!” He said.

A few moments later, I had to return to the front desk because one of my kids had started their period and was in white clothing. They were mortified, and I told them to just run on to the room and that I’d take care of it. When I asked if I could have some pads, the clerk said, “My associate will go grab them for you; we keep them in the restroom.” 

I waited patiently outside the bathroom for the clerk to return. She reemerged with a handful of pads but, before giving them to me, said, “I’m a writer.”

*Images of Willam Defoe’s Spiderman meme flashed through my head*

I was now hijacked. My kid needed me, and now I’m trapped listening to someone’s idea for a memoir. Again. 

After I finally get the pads, I stand at the elevator, no longer patiently waiting and trying to decide what I will tell people I do for a living so that this doesn’t happen again. Except, I love talking about writing… what is the balance, and how am I not properly setting the right boundaries?

***

What I find amusing about these two reactions I received this week from sharing some pretty universal experiences that artists share:

1. The desire to create without the burden of worrying about the lights being shut off is freeloading

2. Strangers wanting you to share proprietary secrets for free is not them freeloading; it’s your responsibility. 

Who’s the freeloader in this scenario, really?

On New Year’s Eve, I had just finished performing the legal wedding for my little sister and her wife. It was a small private ceremony, with the intention to do a public celebration later in the year. We took an Uber up to the Azalea Cocktail Lounge, the bar that inspired my second novel. When the driver arrived, he moved a stack of books from the front seat so there would be space for me. 

It was all books on writing.

“Are you an author?” I ask.

“I would love to be. I’m working on a book.” He responded.

“I drove Uber while working on my first book,” I told him.

It was a short ride, but when it was over, I told him, “Listen, I teach a writing class a couple of times a year; if you are serious about it, I’ll give you a scholarship for my upcoming course.” We exchanged information, and he attended. 

Maybe that is the balance? I don’t know.

***

Being an indie artist doesn’t look like what people think. That’s me in the corner working out the next prompt for my story as I watch two strangers decide to go home together at a bar. 

My mind will wander now as I wonder if it worked out? Will they make love or f+ck? Will this be the beginning of something new or just another one-night stand? Will the condom break, and will he finally regret voting for Trump? Twenty-one years from now, will some kid stroll through those doors to celebrate their first legal drink at the place their parents met? Will they find an older, wiser version of me sitting there at the end of the bar and ask me what I do for a living and say, “I’ve always wanted to write a book about how my parents met at this bar.”

Hopefully, I won’t have learned my lesson yet, and I’ll listen. Maybe I’ll have sold 40 million copies by now, and I’ll say, “You have one year off from your job to write whatever you please. Merry Christmas.”

I guess the line between being patronizing and patronizing is razor f+cking thin.