I'm no fool. I know that I'm not incredibly well-off, financially speaking. I recognize that I am living below the Almighty Poverty Level. But I only today actually grasped that I am, in fact, poor as shit.
I was meeting with a published and financially successful writer today to talk about my future. I'm blazing through (read: taking forever to actually complete) my revisions for Sons of Sinners, and I am in the dark about what I want to do next. So, naturally, talking with an established writer who has had success doing what I want to do seemed like a good idea.
We talked for a long time about my target audience, the importance of impeccable grammar and syntax, and whether I want to go the traditional publishing route or stick it to the Alliance and become one of them independents. I'd sent this writer some of my novel before our meeting and she had a chance to open it up in Word and make a fantastic amount of notes. She sent it back to me, and because I am own a $250 Google machine and not a computer I couldn't see any of it. We spent the better part of an hour trying to adapt her industry standard technology to my bargain bin word processor. I sort of laughed it off and said that a real computer is out of my price range, but some day.
We talked later about the costs of independent publishing. A few random number she threw out just to give me an idea of what she spends to get her books looking professional. You know, to the point that someone would want to buy them. Editors range in the $1000-$1200 range, and competitive prices for cover artists are between four and five hundred dollars. It was clear to her from my early crack about my discount computer that I could not afford this much, and she said I might have to save up for a while if I go the indie route.
It struck me as interesting that this amount of money not only seemed extreme, but nearly unattainable. What did that mean about me? Or my lifestyle, more specifically? I like to think I'm a fairly frugal person (like to; doesn't mean I am), and still I struggle every month to make ends meet. How could I afford all these costs that come with self-publishing? Oh well, I thought. I'll worry about that when I get to it.
After we'd talked for a few hours I knew I had to get home to my dog. I got out to my car and thanked the nondenominational higher power that I had no tickets on my windshield. I opened the clanky door and watched the panel shift out like it always does. I avoided that one spot of the door handle that pulls the whole panel off as I closed it, and then felt my car rock on its busted shocks with the motion. I looked at the garbage on my floor and thought of the unpaid parking tickets in my glove box.
This isn't the kind of car adults drive, I thought. I then realized with sudden horror that I am living in poverty.
As I said, it's something I have always consciously known. But for some reason this moment here showed me the seemingly infinite gap between my life now and who I want to be (a successful writer). Christ, how far is that goal? Is it even possible for me get there from where I am? Or is it just a fanciful pipedream?
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