You make a living at that?

I’m all for candidness. Yet I find it strange when, upon learning I’m a writer, a stranger asks “You make a living at that?” It’s a valid question, of course, but it seems rather personal for a person meeting me for the first time. (In any case, I do give a candid answer.)

Viewed another way, I find this question not only strange but also surprising. I would not have expected so many laypeople to know how hard it is to make a living as a writer. Before I tried it, I sure didn’t! That’s not to say I naïvely expected to earn a certain amount. It simply means I didn’t think about it one way or another.

In my humble experience, kids tend to think that all authors (even ones they’ve never heard of) rake it in. Many adults, however, develop a more accurate sense of the reality.

Once I read an article claiming that of the untold thousands of people who write books, only 200 make a living at it. In my estimation, it’s far more who survive on their craft (and I’m not talking only about the household names).

One reason is that many full-time writers don’t earn solely from writing. I recently read that Mark Twain made more from speaking than from advances and royalties, and I know many writers today can say the same. (Hey, words is words, though presentation is king.)

I’ve heard a perception that some writers become writers because they don’t want to interact with people. Writing is typically a solitary endeavor. And surely some writers do tense up at the thought of standing before a crowd, even a small one. But other writers love the speaking aspect of the job.

This thought stream prompted me to look up the definition for a term batted around quite a bit in my arena: “honorarium.” Merriam-Webster describes it as “a payment for a service (such as making a speech) on which custom or propriety forbids a price to be set.” Macmillan is a bit more explicit: “an amount of money that someone receives for work that would normally not be paid.”

This shocked me. Not be paid?

In any given industry, time committed + expertise rendered = service deserving of compensation. It’s bad enough that some people expect writers to write “for exposure” (meaning instead of payment), but some also believe that writers should speak publicly about their work as a courtesy (or as a cultural obligation) rather than a source of income.

A common defense of parties who don’t wish to pay authors to speak: “But you earn money from book sales.”

However, first of all, sometimes we don’t. Some books don’t sell enough copies to plunk even a single dime beyond the advance into a writer’s account.

Second, I for one don’t require books to be sold in conjunction with my speaking engagements because that can involve quite a bit of extra work. Therefore, when a paying venue is willing to also run a book sale, I’m all the more grateful; besides, I have found that when a sale accompanies a speech, both the venue and the speaker usually make out better anyway.

Yet writers charge speaking fees because generally speaking, speaking—no matter how well—doesn’t guarantee book sales. (And if I speak at an event where books are not sold, I will never even know if that translates into any books sales.) So if people get something out of one of my talks and I am paid for my efforts, that, to me, is time well spent.

We don’t question when others—from rock stars to televangelists—get paid to perform in front of an audience, so why should writers be any different?

So yes, I make a living at this. And it’s a bonus when others understand what it takes to do so.

Who’s afraid of public speaking?

I once heard a comment that a reason some people become writers is because they don't want to interact with others, let alone give presentations to them. Yet most writers I know do like it.

Or at least they do it.

I’m reading a book called Confessions of a Public Speaker by Scott Berkun. Early on, he addresses the fairly common claim that public speaking is among the top fears of human beings.

He quotes Mark Twain (and I’ve seen more than one version of this online, but regardless of which is the accurate one, the gist remains the same): “There are two types of speakers. Those who are nervous and those who are liars.”

Under no other circumstance would I be capable of proving Twain wrong, but here, I have found an exception to his theory: me.

I simply don’t get nervous before speaking to an audience—so long as I know what I’m talking about.

I wonder if I should get nervous because I'm supposed to get nervous but don't!

I think the reason I don't get nervous is because I love it, but more analytically, because I've got the floor with (under “normal” circumstances) little likelihood of interruption. Audiences want to like speakers—no matter the topic, they want to be entertained—and I try to channel that positive energy. I believe that some people send silent goodwill in proportion to how fearful they are to speak in public: they emphasize with and admire the speaker at the same time.

Perhaps oddly, sometimes I do get nervous talking in smaller groups or even casual conversation; I can feel rushed, like I have to get it out fast or else I won't get to finish my thought.

In the end, we all speak. And, as Berkun notes, we all publicly speak. We just don’t always remember that we’re allegedly afraid of it.

"The Extraordinary Mark Twain (According to Susy)"

After more than two years with nary a literary reference on this blog to the author formerly known as Clemens, I'll be mentioning him several times over the next several posts. I am starting by proclaiming my enthusiasm for a certain 2010 picture book biography.

The Extraordinary Mark Twain (According to Susy), written by Barbara Kerley and illustrated by Edwin Fotheringham, examines a popular subject through a new lens. But technically, the lens is actually old. And young.

It's not really that confusing. Let me explain.

The book is a look at Twain through the eyes of his daughter when she was 13, circa 1885. This was made possible by a journal/biography she wrote at the time. Bravo to Barbara for sensing the gleeful picture book potential in this.

The book is often cheeky, often incisive, and consistently ingenious.

Susy’s words are presented verbatim (spelling mistakes and all) and blown into the book on small “journal entries” (single sheets folded into simple leaflets). Generally I am averse to novelty formats or features in books. I feel Susy's entries would’ve been no less effective as part of the two-dimensional page design because that would not distract from content with cuteness, however thematically appropriate. Also, Compulsive Me says, because that would be less likely to tear. In this case, however, the rest of the book is so strong that I don’t mind it.

Historically, I've been one of the most zealous anti-smoking blabbermouths I knew, yet I'm also a pundit for authenticity and a frequent opponent of PC. Therefore, I applaud the bookmakers for showing Twain smoking at times. This is nonfiction. Twain smoked. Doesn't mean kids will follow. Case closed.

The book is not a storyography, an incident-focused variation of biography. However, it feels like one because it tells about a whole life through the device of a girl commenting in her journal on said life. In other words, the incident could be a girl keeping a journal.

As mentioned above, this is hardly the first book to spotlight Twain (though to my surprise, it does seem to be one of the first picture books). I have often said (usually only to myself) that I will never write a picture book on a textbook figure—meaning a person who is already widely known by name as well as accomplishment. (While Superman is recognized worldwide, his creators, Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster are not household names.)

However, thanks to the extraordinary Barbara Kerley (according to Marc), I’m now more open-minded to the possibility. It's all in the approach.

The original gimmick book

Those who know anything about Bill Finger, uncredited co-creator and original writer (and designer) of Batman, probably know he was known for using what he called "gimmick books."

They were those simple composition books with the speckled black and white covers:


Bill would jot down any bit of information that intrigued him. When he needed inspiration for a story he was to write, he'd search through his growing collection of gimmick books.

I recently learned of another American great who beat Bill to the gimmick book by roughly half a century: Mark Twain.

According to the article on Twain in the 8/9/10 Newsweek: "In little leather-bound notebooks that he carried with him all his life, he set down dialogue he overheard, story ideas, weather conditions, anything that caught his fancy."

The story I heard says that after Bill died in 1974, his son Fred offered the gimmick books to DC Comics, publisher of Batman...but DC declined.

Alas, that means, most likely, that Fred then threw them out.