If I Had a Penny, by Catriona

What have you sacrificed as a writer? 

Apart from the obvious: paid holidays, paid sick leave, a pension and a monthly salary (although I'd have lost the first three when I left Europe anyway and waved goodbye to the last by aging into gig economy times), what *have* I sacrificed by being a writer instead of doing some unthinkable other job that it still scares me to imagine having to return to? (At a push, I could clean pub toilets again. But I'd hate to have to go back to being an academic.)

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There are only three real sacrifices that I've managed to identify, and they're barely worth the name.

1. People believing I've got a job.

I've lost count of the times this has happened. Early on, I tried to decline a standing invitation to a weekday coffee get-together. "I work on Thursdays," I said. "Oh," came the reply. "You got a job?" I might have blinked. "Yeaahh," I said. (This person had been at my book launch.) "I'm a writer." 

Another time, I dropped everything to step in and deal with a fraught situation. It wasn't my family. I did it anyway. I sort felt that maybe there might be a mild "thank you" coming my way. Imagine my surprise when, instead, there was an "It's lucky you don't work, so you had time to do this." 

Or a no-longer neighbour, who'd regularly phone me up to ask things during the day, because evenings were when her husband and mine came home for family time. You know, after they had finished . . . what was it? . . . Oh yeah: work. I actually went as far as giving her Neil's office number and saying she could phone him instead. Gasp. "But he's at work!" she said, recategorising me as the kind of wife who deserved to be run out of Stepford.  

Sometimes it's just people I haven't seen for a while asking, "Are you writing anything at the moment?" and then being surprised that I am. Doesn't happen to plumbers.

But hey-ho.

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2. People recognising that it's *my* job

This really bugs me. It happens to everyone who writes. I don't know if it happens to painters and musicans, but I doubt it. Here's how it goes: you're at a party, or the dentist, or a funeral - you exist, okay? And someone you don't know sidles up and makes you an offer they are astonished you can refuse. "How long's it take you to write a book?" they say. I find that a hard question already. A year? I write two books a year but it's like being able to wash clothes and make bread at the same time. You can hang the washing out while the bread's rising, and you can knead the dough while the sunshine's drying the clothes. Leaving drafts to rise (or dry) is an essential bit of the process. But let's say a year. "Okay," says the party/dentist/funeral guy - and I don't use "guy" in a genderless way, believe me - "I tell you what. I've got a killer idea. I'll share it with you and then you write the book, okay?"

What I actually say when this happens is, "Oh no! No, don't give it away. It's *your* precious idea, burning in *your* belly. *You* should write it. I'll come to the launch party when it comes out."

What I want to say is, "Okay. You spend ten minutes telling me the idea and I'll spend six hours a day for three months on the first draft and then another seven weeks per re-draft, then a further month on copy edits, and a week for the proofs. How would you like your 0.0000134% paid, when it's done?"

But I don't say that, because hearing the split that drunk-toothache-coffin guy was expecting will make my eyes start to bleed. You do know the split that's suggested every single last damned time this happens, don't you? Correct. 50/50.

3. People connecting my job with pay (just like their job).

It's not even people asking you to do speaking events for "exposure" although that's bad enough. I'm actually fine with people saying up front that their fundraiser or volunteer event can't stretch to a stipend but they'll pay travel expenses and take you out for a nice lunch. Naw, I'm talking about these two things. 3a. People who're themselves drawing a salary for running events they charge people to attend, but never considering paying the authors who're central to the event. 3b. The somewhat related people not mentioning money at all and reacting as if shocked by the intrusion of grubby commerce when they're asked about it. Hmmmmm. Try that anywhere else - at the end of a meal in a restaurant, at the door of a cinema, on the phone to an airline. "I'm sorry? What is this "bill" of which you speak? Qu'est-ce que c'est  "ticket"? I'm not familiar with "fare"? Can you explain, please?"

But even that isnt my biggest peeve. (Do I mean biggest? Or smallest? You can't have read this far and still not have noticed that this entire blog is a petty little whingefest.) Anyway, that prize goes to my friend and yours, Climbing-into-the-coffin-with-a-party-hat-on-and-blaming-the-novocaine-Guy. He's ba-ack. And the bad news is he listened to what I said and he's written his book. Now he wants an evaluation of it. Two things are wrong now. 3c. No, he doesn't. He doesn't want to hear what you think. He wants to hear that it's a cathedral of dizzying genius and 3b. He doesn't want to pay for your time. 

Why would he, when he's doing you such an enormous favour? And how do you know he thinks it's a favour? Because of the missing word in this heartsink of a sentence: "I've finished my book. I'll _____ you read it now."

You know the missing word right? Right.

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Book 40! Coming in December.
I'll _____ you read it then.