The Price of Passion
When society talks about finding that thing that sets your arse on fire, it doesn’t mean eating ghost peppers dipped in Frank’s Redhot and then praying your tenderest tissues survive the aftermath. And yet, that’s what chasing a creative life feels like, doesn’t it? The burn, the discomfort, the “Dear god, why did I do this to myself?”
‘Tis the cost of a fiery soul, dear writer friend.
But ‘Find your passion’ is more than an inauthentic platitude cross-stitched onto a throw pillow. These well-meaning maxims might sound inspirational on the surface, but without actionable steps, they’re just empty calories — briefly sweet but ultimately unsatisfying. And in our modern reality, banks and landlords don’t accept paintings or poetry chapbooks (or cross-stitched throw pillows) as payment for the mortgage/rent.
Can you imagine walking into your local market with one of your books, asking to see a manager, and then offering to trade Your Very Amazing Novel — signed! — for a cart full of groceries?
Yeah, no. And yet we keep showing up. The fire burns on, no matter how hard it rains.
One of the hardest lessons I’ve had to learn in this business is that most writers have day jobs. In the early days, I had a heated conversation with my then-agent that went something like this:
“Jenn, unless you have a wealthy partner or a trust fund, most writers have day jobs.”
“But Dan, I want you to sell my books so THIS can be my day job. Don’t you understand how much I want this to be real?”
Dan (who brought Dork Diaries into the world) sighed. “I’m an agent, not a magician.”
That was in 2012. Back then, I thought publishing a book would change everything. Alas, I am still working a day job.
So, why keep going?
Because sometimes — miraculously — you find yourself in a position where your passion does make a difference. Announcing to the world that I’ve joined Pulp Literature as their Novel Acquisitions Editor sounds impressive — because it is. This indie Canadian publisher has been championing exceptional, genre-bending stories for over a decade, and now I get to help shape that next chapter. (Literally.) Every day is like Christmas morning — I look forward to checking our queries inbox and writing emails to authors about their projects; I count down to our Tuesday meetings, and I bombard the Discord channel with a million questions. (Sorry, Jen.)
All because I cannot wait to publish brilliant books and elevate the talent that might be overlooked with bigger publishers due to the ages-old problem of “We’re not sure how and where to market this.” That right there is the publishing house I want to build — we are the publisher of awesome books that don’t quite fit when the editorial board holds up their magnifying glass to the profit & loss statements. We’re the publisher for the stories the big guys don’t know how to shelve.
Because books light my arse on fire.
It’s not sustainable forever (hence, the day job), but it’s intentional. BUILD IT AND THEY WILL READ. I’m betting on a future where this work leads to something meaningful — for readers, for the writers we publish, and yes, eventually for my trips to the grocery store. Jen and Mel and the whole Pulp Lit team have poured 12+ years into this press not because it made them rich but because they love stories. They know what it means to be on fire.
Last Friday, I had an hour-long call with one of my favourite authors. She told me she’d turned down a respectable offer for her next book because the publisher’s vision didn’t align with hers. She chose integrity over income. Is she rich from her backlist? Not yet. But her stories are hers, and that matters more. When that call ended, I sat and stared at my dark computer screen for a few minutes, digesting what she’d said. Even though we are players in this capitalist world, we are still “allowed” to pursue a creative life. The work is the reason. Not the money. Not the fame. Not the accolades.
This morning, I was chatting with my little brother*, author Tyner Gillies, who just came off a too-short break from his own day job. He used the time to write, and he said something that stuck with me:
“I am filled with doubt about any real success in writing. But having that week off to write and make some real progress on a story I like and believe in made me love the process of the story. I’m not going to quit, [even if] I might be writing for a tiny audience.”
That’s really it, isn’t it?
We do what we do because it sets something in us ablaze. Even when we’re exhausted. Even when it doesn’t pay. Even when we’re writing for an audience of one.
Raise your mugs, my friends. Here’s to the fire, faint or fierce—may it never go out.
*He’s not my real little brother. We adopted each other years ago and now we are family. That’s how it works.
NOW: Wet the tips of your quills as it is once again time for the FIRST PAGE CAGE match!
Our annual contest for all the long-form fiction writers out there. Send us the first two pages (up to 500 words) of your novel, novella, or novelette, and see how far you get in the octagon! Full contest rules and entry forms here. Hit me with your best shot. <– bonus points if you sing that out loud … aww, Pat Benatar is so proud of you.
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