Fifteen years of day jobs

Because it's okay if writing alone doesn't pay the bills

When I was a young college student discovering the joy of writing for the first time, I used to churn out novel after novel, submitting each and every one to literary agents with the hopes of being signed and, eventually, published. I would print off my first three chapters/first ten pages/first 5,000 words plus synopsis/notorized letter with my blood type and fingerprints/etc. and package them up in big manila envelopes along with a query letter tailored to each individual agent and an SASE¹. I’d stand in line at the post office, my arms full of these cumbersome envelopes, and mail them off to New York, confident that all my efforts would eventually be rewarded with representation and a publishing deal that would set my writing career on a bullet train to greatness, accompanied by a big fat advance check.

Yeah…that never happened. Not even close.

This is not an essay bemoaning the publishing industry, or a debate about traditional vs self-publishing. Those are worthy, fascinating topics of discussion. This essay is about how it took me several painful years to finally accept the following unpopular facts:

1. Many (most?) authors will not be able to support themselves exclusively through book sales. There are exceptions, and that’s amazing!

2. I am not an exception.

My journey to understanding these truths was not profound or accompanied by any sort of big Ah-ha Moment. I have always seen myself as a writer first, and a whatever-my-current-job-title-is second. Maybe I always will. But I don’t see the necessity of a day job as a defeat anymore, and that makes a huge difference. So I invite you to take a brief sojourn down memory lane with me as I recount my various “careers” over the past fifteen years.

Job #1

I’m a journalist! At…my local paper.

Okay, I’m being kind of snarky there but this was actually a huge coup for me. At the time it seemed utterly ordinary - natural, even - that the newspaper would hire me in spite of the fact that I was a freshly minted college graduate, had ZERO experience writing anything other than my aforementioned (bad) novels, and I hadn’t even taken it upon myself to do some sort of internship at, you know, a local newspaper while in pursuit of the ubiquitous BA in Communication. I literally mailed them a letter asking for work, much like Skeeter in The Help, and for some reason they called me in for an interview. I was delulu before it was cool.

I went to the mall and bought my first (and last) suit for the occasion. The jacket was very mod/60’s with a cropped hem and bell sleeves and I absolutely loved it, though now I realize it probably wasn’t the most flattering cut. I didn’t care, though! I was about to get a job as a journalist! I marched into that downtown office - which was demolished a few years ago and replaced with a glam hotel - with copies of a (laughably bare) resume tucked into a black leather portfolio I found in our basement and waited for my interview.

Interviews, plural, it turned out. I did not know it at the time, but this was my introduction to what I now know as the oft-dreaded round interview, a baptism of fire where you sit in a room for three hours while the person sitting behind the desk rotates out every thirty minutes or so. I can’t remember how many editors interviewed me that day, but it was at least three, with gaps between. During one of the gaps I had to take a spelling test (!) where I was presented with a sheet of paper printed with 100 of the most commonly misspelled words. My task was to go down the list in fifteen minutes or so and circle the ones spelled correctly, and cross out the misspelled ones. I then had to rewrite them with the correct spelling. This sounds like an archaic exercise now, but I remember feeling terrified as I looked at words like “seperate” and “necessary.” One c? Two c’s? Who knows??

My test score must have been decent because I eventually met with the editor in chief, who was like, “Huh, you write…books? For fun?” and said he’d be in touch by Friday. I left on a cloud. I was going to be a journalist!!!!

Except, Friday came and no one called. Nor did anyone call on Monday. This was another baptism of fire in Real World Jobs, wherein you get absolutely ghosted after an interview and are left wondering what on earth you did wrong. I eventually cracked and called the editor who’d initially contacted me, only for her to tell me the position was not going to be filled after all, by anyone (baptism of fire #3), but then asked if I would be interested in a role as a freelance contributor. Um…yes!

My very first byline. My dad had the article framed.

For the next several months I wrote a weekly article for the Wednesday insert printed for distribution within the city limits. It was called, creatively enough, City People, and was akin to a local news segment that talks about a new barbecue place opening up (I’m not disparaging barbecue, btw. I would love this). At first I covered “local sport fundraising events” like charity 5Ks and such, but I gradually moved to profiling local artists. I had a blast interviewing them and visiting their studios - often in the sketchier parts of town - and writing up the 500 word articles for submission each week. I learned quickly that they never took my headline suggestions (a la Leslie Knope), so I started leaving them off entirely when I emailed my Word doc. Eventually they offered to pay me for photos of the artists, too. I strongly suspect this was because they didn’t want to waste their photographers’ time. During my abundant free time I continued writing and querying with abandon.

I kept up this weekly routine for a while, honing my interview skills along the way, but in a theme that would reappear over the years, the money remained quite thin on the ground.

It was time for a day job.

Job #2

I work at a bakery! And I never drop a cake.

But I did stick a finger into many cakes by accident. So did everyone else who worked there. If you go into a classy bakery that has full cakes on display in a glass case, and the assistant helping you whisks the cake to the back of the store to “smooth out the icing” or whatever, ten to one it’s because she stuck her thumb into that thing. Those cardboard cake rounds are, like, 5mm thick. The cakes themselves are heavy and unwieldy, so bending over and lifting one off a tray takes skill. You have to nudge your fingers under the round juuuust right, or it’ll slip and you’ll end out up to your knuckle in frosting.

As far as food service jobs go, this one was quite fun, except during November and December when it turned into an absolute madhouse. I am a firm believer that everyone should work a job that interacts with the general public at least once in their lives because, holy cow, witnessing such rudeness sticks with you. We’d all be better citizens for it.

Most people were lovely, though. I was only a counter sales girl but we had a team of amazing cake decorators who created the most beautiful cakes I’ve ever seen. I enjoyed flipping through our binders of cakes with customers, helping them with custom orders for birthdays or anniversaries or whatever. Orders I took ranged from a Peace Corps bon voyage cake to a Happy Divorce cake, and everything in between. I helped an assistant from a doctor’s office cart out TWELVE pound cakes to their car for a Christmas party and one afternoon I fulfilled a catering order for a very cute legal aide from a downtown law firm. And, without fail, I had some version of this conversation at least once a week:

Me: So, what flavor would you like for the cake itself? Chocolate, white, yellow…?

Customer: Vanilla.

Me: Well, we don’t have “vanilla” cake, it would be either white or yellow.

Customer: What’s the difference.

Me: Yellow cake has egg yolks, white cake doesn’t.

Customer: stares blankly

I would probably handle those conversations differently now! I also shake my head when I look back on the time I went to the storage room and wrote down all the grains listed on the seven grain (or 12 grain? Whatever it was) flour for that particular loaf of bread, because a customer expressed idle curiosity about it. I was eager to please, that’s for sure.

When I wasn’t flogging cakes or wiping down glass display cases I kept writing…and writing and writing. But I also grew tired of nasty customers and running around on my feet all day. It was time for yet another change.

Job #3

I work at a Montessori school! Grace and courtesy FTW.

I come from a family of teachers and educators, so I can say with great confidence that I am NOT teacher material. Still, I enjoyed my time at the Montessori school. I did not know much (okay, anything) about this particular pedagogy, though I know people have all kinds of strong feelings about it. When a friend’s neighboring classroom had an opening for a Lower Elementary Assistant Directress - fancy name for teacher’s aid in a mixed grade classroom - she recommended I apply.

The kids were wonderful, the parents were great (mostly), and I loved the schedule, but I did not like being so far from my creative roots. Unlike my other jobs that were true Day Jobs where you show up, do the thing, and go home, this one cost much more mental energy. I stopped freelancing for the paper because there just wasn’t enough time. My writing muscle lost a good bit of strength during these years, to the point where I decided to go for broke and get The Fear² and give writing full time a shot.

“Job” #4

I’m a novelist! I just have no money and basically no book sales to prove it.

This is a chapter in my life that, truly, I wish I could delete. Or at least edit. Bad financial decisions, total disregard for the future…all the classic stuff of failure. It’s all very boring. I hope the reader has more sense than I did. I would not attempt such a move again without a sizeable safety net.

Needless to say, my writing ground to a halt during this time. Why query? Why even self-publish? What was the point? Why bother with this stupid hobby that I adore if I can never make any money from it?

I applied to jobs like a crazy person during this time. I didn’t want to work at a school again but The Fear was all too real and I felt it, bigly. Then, after three interviews spread out over five agonizing months, I finally reached…

Job #5

I’m a quality editor in Big Tech! I’m a corporate sellout and it’s surprisingly okay.

I am now going to proceed under the principle of Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.

When I was in high school I always said my worst nightmare was a job that required sitting in a cubicle. Well, high school me did not have a mortgage. She also didn’t have children or a husband or think about retirement for one second. People hate on 9-5’s a lot, and I get why, but it’s been a great stabilizing force in my life. I have decent PTO but I’m too low on the totem pole for anyone to message me after hours and expect me to respond. I’ve been here for many, many years now and I love that at the end of the day I am done, and I can spend my weekends puttering around the yard with my family, going to church, etc. and not worry about my book sales. It takes all the pressure off, so I’m able to write what I like, when I can, and simply enjoy it again. Will I always be a corporate drone? I hope not, but it’s acceptable for now.

Maybe some day writing will be lucrative enough to allow me to spend those 9-5 hours writing even more, or volunteering, or taking a full time or even part time job that pays less but is more fulfilling. Few things are as impermanent as a workplace. But I think I’ll always have something else going on, because if I’m stuck in front of my laptop working on one novel or another day after day I might go crazy. Working in an office (however much I loathe the office itself, which is no secret) keeps me tethered to a reality I might miss if I’m always up in my head, sorting through character/plot stuff. It’ll also come in handy whenever I want a break from historical fiction and fantasy and decide to try my hand at a rom-com³.

Day jobs don’t have to be the end of the world, and having one certainly doesn’t mean you’ve failed. It may just mean your writing is still trying to find its proper place in your life.

I know I’m still figuring it out.

1. Self Addressed Stamped Envelope, for anyone who started querying after 2012

2. Friends season 3, episode 10, The One Where Rachel Quits. Terrible advice, imo. Maybe it works for you, but I can’t handle it.

3. How much time has to pass before a time period is considered “retro”? Can I write about high school in the early/mid 2000’s? Is that cool yet?