A few years ago I sat down and did a quick financial review of my writing income over twenty years, as well as an estimate of the number of hours I had spent writing to produce same. The results didn't surprise me, but I always share this little stat with those who might be harboring illusions of wealth inside the idea of being or becoming a writer.
On the plus side of the ledger I had several thousands of dollars in book royalties, as well as payment garnered from writing for magazines, journals, newspapers and such. I totalled all of this up and then began doing a methodical estimate of the number of hours I had spent writing that same material.
What I arrived at was an hourly rate for my work, and as I recall, it wasn't even $3.00 per hour.
Or, to put it into a scenario that might be more identifiable . . . I would have made more if I had worked those same hours moonlighting at McDonalds.
But then with me, writing is a lot like dipping fries or flipping burgers . . . I just keep churning out pages (books, magazine articles, essays, poems, blogs, stories, and proposals). My goal (when I die) will be to hang a sign on my casket that reads: "Billions and Billions of Words Written!" My hourly rate really stinks, but I'd rather write all night on a twelve-year old computer and suffer the threat of electrocution than come home at three a.m. smelling like grease.
It's a dirty job, being an after-hours and all-night writer . . . but somebody has to do it.
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