Man's Gotta Eat
Some thoughts on freedom, security, the creative life and the 'arts recession' in Ireland. Which would you prefer?
Image: Sergey Zolkin via Unsplash
The ancient war
between obsession and responsibility
will never finish…
- Derek Walcott, ‘Sea Grapes’.
It is astonishing how many young people of both sexes, when asked what they want to do in life, give neither a sensible answer like “I want to be a lawyer, an innkeeper, a farmer" nor a romantic answer like “I want to be an explorer, a racing motorist, a missionary, President of the United States.” A surprisingly large number say “I want to be a writer," and by writing they mean “creative” - writing. Even if they say “I want to be a journalist,” this is because they are under the illusion that in that profession they will be able to create; even if their genuine desire is to make money, they will select some highly paid subliterary pursuit like Advertising.
- W.H. Auden, ‘The Poet and the City’.
“Get a day job, make your money from that, and write to please yourself.”
―Harlan Ellison.
With each passing year, I’ve become more and more convinced that, fundamentally, people need to do something with the time they have. I don’t just mean out of a sense of duty to some outside influence (be that family, financial constraints, employment - and these are perfectly valid as well), or even in the name of that more nebulous term ‘career’ - though this, too, falls within the remit. In this day and age, one’s hobbies, interests, recreational pursuits etc, lend enhancement to one’s existence and, if they can turn it into a side hustle, that is undoubtedly a bonus.
The concept of Utopia has never personally appealled to me. For starters, I don’t believe it to be attainable - and even if it was, I’m not sure I’d want any part of it. Perhaps it’s just the hero-worshipper in me, but a life of endlessly sipping Mai Tais on a sun-kissed tropical beach somewhere would lose its appeal for me fairly quickly. I need to feel like I’ve earned the good things in my life - I’ll certainly value them a lot more. Whatever suffering has to be endured in the name of fulfilling a dream is worth it - at least in my view. Complacency is easy. At the same time, if you have striven as hard as you know you’re capable of striving, then the decision is also rightly yours to to take a breather.
I turn thirty in less than a month, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel the inevitable disquietude that comes with the dawning of a new decade. Throughout my twenties, I’ve been in and out of jobs, haven’t managed or bothered to build anything that resembles a ‘career’ in the conventional sense, and have a string of failed relationships in my wake. At the risk of sounding horribly pretentious, my real work was always my writing. I don’t view myself as an artist or a poet (despite having been at it for a quarter of a century and with a collection published this year) - I don’t think the decision is mine to make, but the individual decision of whomever reads my work.
I won’t lie by saying I regret nothing (because I certainly do), but I’ve tried not to let these failures govern my subsequent existence. I also like to believe that I have reasons to hang on to hope, instead of despair, despite the daily barrage of apocalyptic madness roiling from my newsfeed.
Throughout history and more or less all of human endeavor - whether it be through exploration of planet Earth and further afield, scientific or artistic advancement or even through nation-building and altruistic struggles to secure and safeguard basic human rights - this has been a guarantee of seeing human society advance to the levels of safety we now enjoy (at least, certainly in the Western anglophone sphere, that is).
A recent Twitter thread got me thinking about this. It was suggested that, as writers, should we treat writing as a hobby until we make money off it? The person who posted the tweet claimed to find such a question annoying, both in its insinuation and its regularity; I am inclined to agree with them.
Many writers I know find themselves up against this quandary. The Australian novelist Ishmael Soledad, who also contributed to the thread, insisted that:
A man’s gotta eat, indeed. The work-life balance can be for anyone of course - just finding time to write against life’s daily demands is in itself a challenge, especially if one is married and is raising kids or has ailing parents to care for. Working between multiple varying domains (the world of writing, the world of work, the little time we have left to ourselves, and to our loved ones) has become the norm for many - perhaps an unforeseen outcome of a society making as much progress as it has?
Anyway, my contribution to the aforementioned thread was to the effect that, for most of my twenties, my writing was what I came home to, as opposed to something I worked at (i.e. made a living from). Several years ago, when I was living and working in Dublin City centre with my ex, from 2016 until the end of 2018, I worked a variety of jobs, some fulfilling, some menial, while attempting to make some headway on the writing at night. On top of this, it was only myself and my girlfriend at the time. Given how expensive Dublin was becoming to live in, we counted ourselves among the lucky ones.
As a young childless couple renting a basement flat in Dublin’s exorbitant rental market, we were both working full-time as well as trying to keep our side hustles viable, very little actual writing got done. Factor in money issues, the natural exhaustion that follows a twelve-hour shift working in a busy pub or as a security guard in a major retail outlet in the city centre, and a large part of my creative life was left virtually fallow. I’d attempt to write in the evenings, usually through a blur of tiredness and other chores and errands that had to be seen to, as well as taking digital marketing night classes that were taken in order to upskill as well (the possibility of the writing not working out was never, and still isn’t, very far from my mind - it’s a motivator as much as anything else).
It wasn’t just for the sake of it - this is what I’ve wanted to do since I was a child, and in today’s world, there’s no shortage of ways to find a way of doing it. But I had an outlet at least, a means of harbouring myself from the world, wherein language worked its strange alchemy in order to make sense of it. And I was learning. My craft definitely improved in those three years more so than any other time I can recall. My girlfriend at the time was an editor, and I have only her to thank for that - her steely-eyed prowess and tech savvy were invaluable. The best I could do in return was cook her a halfway decent meal and not get fired from my job. On top of that, the steady stream of rejections from various publications I’d submitted to filled up my inbox and kept my ego in check.
I’ve spoken to other authors about this, the pros and cons of maintaining such a balance. The writer Alice Kinsella, currently based out in Ireland’s west coast, told me:
‘Having the security of home to work from is a huge privilege, and maintaining that home is part of that. But I've had to give myself permission to be selfish. To value my work is to value myself. I'd be a ghost by now if I didn't do that.
And I've had to learn that not every hour is equal. I'm only going to be in top form for 3 or 4 hours a day. I can write more and of better quality in those hours than for the other 20 put together.
I don't try to stick to 1000 words or a certain number of hours at the desk. If I'm too tired I just don't sit down at the desk anymore. I know there's no point. I'll churn out shite and be spread even thinner and I'll end up doing a half-assed job across the board.
I'm still miles away from getting the balance right... I need to focus less on the books that could have been written. It's the ones that I actually write that count. I definitely get tunnel vision with projects, and need to make sure I don't let the rest of my life fall apart when that happens.
I'm finally getting to the stage where I make myself take time off. Refill the well, so to speak. There's all sorts of metaphors about marathons and sleep and drinking from empty cups that can be applied to writing, family life, or just your own mental health. I think that's what I'm getting at, my personal and professional life feed into each other, support each other.
Writing is a solitary pursuit. When writing takes over, it can be easy to isolate yourself. But you need pleasure, love, joy... gives us stuff to write about.
Saying all that, I'm in a very fortunate position. There's plenty of writers working their asses off in bars or coffee shops, single mums with no support systems, alcoholics, people struggling to pay rent. The security I have allows me to write, and spending time with my kid makes me a better writer. When I worked in the civil service I was drained of all humanity and couldn't write for shit... if the things in your life that aren't writing fulfill you, then they make the writing time more valuable, you need less of it.’1
My good friend Gary Grace, author of some the finest short stories I’ve read in recent years, was a little more succinct on the balance: ‘It’s really hard. The End.’
I’m in full agreement with Alice, though. The security is definitely a boon and a spur to productivity, though striking the right balance often seems maddeningly out of reach.
The fact remains that, as writers, actors, musicians, filmmakers, theatre practitioners, dancers, podcasters, and anyone involved in any kind of creative work, and for that matter, anyone who is self-employed, your entire life is a gig economy. One job to the next, commission following grant rejection following an extended period on multiple applications on government assistance or support from family or friends (if you’re lucky).
In the decade prior to Covid, the so-called ‘gig economy’ gained much traction. It gradually became the norm for many people to be working more than one job. While this is testament to people’s individual energy and work ethic and ability to earn a living from multiple revenue streams, it is also an indicator of how unstable the job market has become.
I’d a tendency to view every job I’ve had as a necessity, a means to an end - the goal was to make enough in order to practise my craft. This perhaps sounds like self-indulgence - why not upskill and branch out into other industries if the writing isn’t going well? No point putting all of one’s eggs into one’s basket, after all. And given all the strides being made in the digital sphere, what other excuse did one have? Why not work at one’s own pace, be one’s own boss, and never let the grind stop?
At the time, the thinking went, this new-fangled ‘gig economy’ might just be manna from heaven for anyone with the requisite drive to succeed in it. Never mind the lack of job security - you are your own boss after all. Never mind your wages fall below poverty levels and you have to work at dangerously competitive rates just to earn some semblance of a decent living - your customer reviews are glowing. Never mind the chaos and unpredictability or the possibility you could die on the job - your freelance services can be commissioned and delivered via the simple press of an app.
Of course, Covid, I think, has put the lie to all this. If remote working is the future, then perhaps more and more people from even white-collar jobs will find themselves in such a position. Moreover, over twenty months’ worth of lockdown and stay-at-home measures have ensured the arts sector in Ireland has suffered extensively. While live music and theatre performance remain at limited capacity (aside from a few cursory, state-sanctioned and extensively-monitored events and indoor live events still being illegal under current guidelines), even after vaccinations have been administered to much of the populace, meaning a great deal of musos and theatre practitioners find themselves consistently out of work the recent decision to allow 40, 000 GAA fans to attend the All-lreland Hurling and Football Finals in Dublin’s Croke Park earlier this month.
I should clarify, my beef here is not with the fans - they have as much right to enjoy the sport they love as I do seeing my favourite band live and in person. Moreover, sports is often a bedrock for community - something Covid and lockdown has done almost fully away with. My issue lies with the inconsistency of government policy - it is fine for 40, 000 fans to descend on Croke Park, but not for people of a considerably smaller number to attend an indoor concert or theatrical performance, striking a further blow to creatives in this country - many of whom must work multiple jobs in order to be able to practise their art in the first place.
So, despite it all, I keep returning to this second hand laptop and try to keep working away at my craft. As this newsletter continues, I hope I can at least stay productive and that any subscribers, friends and supporters out there enjoy, whether they be essays, poems, prose fiction, or my own free-floating thoughts. I begin a new teaching job in September, and rather than seeing it as eating into my writing time, I hope it will in fact fuel and enhance it.
And to all other working creatives and writers on intimate terms with the struggle of work and life and creativity, I hope you find your balance.
As always, my thanks to you for reading this letter from my private inferno. Please subscribe and enjoy.
Reprinted with kind permission from the author.