One of the very first things you’ll undoubtedly hear when you introduce yourself as an Arts major is, “Good luck making any money.” I am greeted with it every time I mention wanting to be a writer. I’m forced to respond the same way: with a soft, uncertain laugh and a shrug, ever unsure about if I should defend myself or let the words gently pass me by. Still, that’s who I am. I study, I work, and I create. Simple enough, when you think about it.
I’m not an emotional person, but I have my passions, with writing at the forefront. It’s easy to be hurt when you care that deeply about something. There’s that underlying knowledge, though, that doing what you love is going to cost you a two-story house in the suburbs, a four-door Tesla, and any happy, wealthy comforts you could’ve dreamt up.
Any time my goals of being a writer are met with snickers and mockery from peers who will undoubtedly make upwards of six figures, a piece of my younger self dies. ‘She doesn’t understand their back-handed compliments.’ ‘She’s still in second grade, clutching a pink spiral notebook her grandma bought her that’s been filled with happy little Haikus, and is counting down the days until she can share her words with the world.’ ‘She can’t think of a single job she would want more than being a big-shot like that, with book deals and tours.’ They try to break you down, mock you, belittle you. It’s intoxicating, yet it inspires me more and more.
Now, as I’m writing this for you to inevitably read, I know she’d be thrilled. She would cry knowing that we’ve been published a dozen times, that in three years’ time, we’ll (hopefully) be working in publications, just like she always hoped and dreamed. There are 1,000 old binders of work I’d let her read, a 785-page (terrible) draft she could scour, and conversations I’d be sure to have with her. She would be proud of us. But still, I can’t help picturing her confusion at those comments about money, the shame settling over her in thick waves.
I’ve been comfortable with the projected salaries of my career for a while now. You have to be when you’re forced to know it at any moment, just in case Aunt Michelle is curious or your dad’s co-workers start prying. Realistically, the most I’ll ever make going down this road is close to $60,000, and only more than that if I choose to move to a densely populated city, like New York or Chicago, and live out of a cardboard-box apartment.
My mom used to call it “the burden of being an artist,” like it was in my nature and something I could never change. It took me 18 years to figure out that it, in fact, was. She’d tell me about all the actresses huddled together for warmth on a street corner, waiting for their audition; about the freelance writers who poured their souls into pieces that would get skimmed over in some copycat magazine; about the artists and painters getting low-balled for their life’s work; and about spoken-word poets performing in cafe backrooms, trying to get anyone to listen.
It’s hard trying to explain my lack of worry to non-artists, souls not yet made rugged by that kind of rejection. “My parents saw my creativity early and gave it room to grow,” I try to tell them. “I’ve been wanting this as long as I can remember.”
Still, I would be lying if I said it hadn’t gotten under my skin too from time to time. There was one night a few months back when I let it get to me, worse than before, and in the midst of a panic attack, I called my mom about changing my major to Pre-Law. Even without seeing her, I could hear her face sink in disappointment. She only had one question for me, really:
“But will it make you happy?”
It wouldn’t have. I’m addicted to the act of creation, the blessing of inspiration jumping into my otherwise empty head. It goes beyond money, benefits, and sick days. It’s a spiritual affair, at the end of the day, and I would give anything to feel the way I do when I write. Nothing else can satiate it, not even fast cars and expensive sushi. It’s who I am, and as a new writer on this staff, that’s what I hope to keep doing: making my younger self proud, every day, for our decisions.
So here’s my advice to you, if you have a younger version of yourself begging and pleading to make the art they always wanted to: do it.
Don’t look back. The world is full of black-and-white suited accountants and realtors, doctors, nurses, and surgeons. There are always going to be people who make more money than you. Why should that matter?
And if you find yourself in a situation where people tell you how foolish you are, or that the money isn’t there and you’ll be unsuccessful, just let it slide off your back. Give them a smile, or a shrug. The poets, painters, musicians, and performers of the world will always understand you, and that’s more than enough.