Writing Isn't A Real Job
so says your mom
It goes unsaid that if you’re not earning money in your life, you are either volunteering, being lazy or it’s a weekend. Any sort of artist; writer, actor, painter, etc. who isn’t winning the bread is not considered a professional.
--Said any mom of an artist--
Because I’m not earning six figures (or even 4) my mom thinks I can just take off for a few weeks.
“You’re not getting paid. Why spend so much time on this Subster?” she said.
“It’s Substack. I’ve made a commitment to my readers. And besides, I love it,” I said.
This was also her approach when I was volunteering as a baby cuddler at a hospital.
“You’re not getting paid, take the day off.” She said.
“Ma, the nurses depend on me. I help ease their day.”
“Then they should pay you or hire more nurses.”
I paused because she had a point. Then I realized--
“The babies need me. And honestly, I need them too. Also, I was one of fifteen applicants who was chosen to volunteer.”
“Uch.”
(Sorry to out you Ma, but be happy to know you’re not alone in this rationale.)
When I was an actor, my Mom was very supportive. My theory? It’s more glamorous to say your daughter has a guest-starring role on Seinfeld than your daughter is working on a short story about robots… that she wears sweatpants every day, no make-up and sometimes forgets to eat. The only glamor in writing is if you’re Ernest Hemingway in 1954.
I wondered about the Moms throughout history and how they responded to their kids who wanted to write...
1215 AD
Here’s the Mom of Magna Carta Writer #2 (there were 13), "Listen, no one is going to ever know who you are so why waste perfectly good parchment? That iron-gall ink is pricey and King John ain’t gonna pay us back. I remember the good old days when my to-do list was carved in stone.”
“Ma! I’m writing something for all of humanity.”
“Humanity schmanity. You’re a Baron. Be thankful.
“Look Ma. Clause 17 will say that there will be a permanent home for the court so us Barons won’t have to chase the king around trying to get some justice.”
“I’ll have Abigail make you cabbage soup, cabbage pudding and cabbage ale if you put in a clause about women having equal rights as men.”
Magna Carta Author #2 looked baffled. The notion had ne’er entered his inspired thoughts.
“I’m tired of cabbage.”
520-ish BCE
Mom of Herodotus, "Listen, Hero, quit lollygagging and get a real job. What ever happened to your friend Sophocles? Now he’s a real talent. Such a nice boy. That Antigone story is so sad. The poor girl just wanted to bury her brother.”
“Ma, I’m writing about our wars and daily life. I’m going to travel and report on the Greco-Persian war,” said Herodotus.
“Who wants to know about battles let alone our boring lives? Go be a merchant like your father. Why trek to the frontlines. You might get killed, or worse, Typhus.”
“It is better by a noble boldness to run the risk of being subject to half of the evils we anticipate, than to remain in cowardly listlessness for fear of what may happen,” said Herodotus.
“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
1660-ish
John Locke’s Mom, "Johnny, what are you doing?”
“I had a thought.”
“Uh oh.”
“I was pondering on the notion that people are endowed with natural rights to life, liberty and property.”
John Locke’s Mom considered this, then said, “Nah. The King won’t like that. What else you got?”
“I’m rather stuck on this notion.”
“You’ll go to Oxford and study medicine and that’s that.”
1895-ish
Jane Austen’s Mom, "Janey, Mr. Bagley is on his way here and he is in want of a wife.”
“I’m busy writing.”
“Ugh, not again. How will you win a husband with your ink-stained fingers and a sharp tongue?”
“I don’t want to marry, Mummy. We’ve talked about this. I’ve got stories to tell,” said Jane Austen.
“Stories? What about stories you can tell your grandchildren one day?”
“I like to comment on society.”
“Oh, please. Think of our position. You mustn’t speak ill of our betters as you do. Keep your pride in check,” said Jane Austen’s Mom.
“My brother Henry has a literary agent friend who says I can make a living.”
“A woman? Earning? Girl you’ll bring shame on us all. Besides, name me one writer who wins their keep?”
“Charles Dickens.”
Jane Austen’s Mom gasped joyously and said, “Indeed you are a clever girl after all. Maybe Mr. Dickens is in want of a wife. Does he have five thousand a year?”
1927-ish
George Orwell’s (Eric Blair’s) Mom, "And what’s wrong with the name Eric? Who’s George? How about getting a real job where you can use your real name?”
“I like George Orwell. It’s a good round English name. You can quote me on that.”
“Your father could pull some strings and get you a job with the Opium Department. He loves working there,” said George Orwell’s Mom.
“Mother, dear, I wish to write.”
“About what?”
“Big brother.”
“But you have two sisters,” said George Orwell’s Mom.
“No, as in totalitarianism. Hear this, Who controls the past controls the future; who controls the present controls the past. You can quote me on that.”
“Right now, I’m controlling your dinner. We’re having leftover mutton.”
I’m thankful for Moms but also relieved that writers through the ages didn’t listen to their Mothers.
{Disclaimer—Mothers of the author’s portrayed in this essay are fictionalized. So is the dialogue between Mother and Writer-Child.}
Finally--
“I don’t understand why the universe is so big. What’s space time continuum? Why is that planet earth so complicated?” G-d’s mom.
1. Do you have a family member who believes writing isn’t work?
2. Do you consider yourself a professional (whatever)?
3. What’s your dream job?
What’s a better living legacy: your writing or a stack of W-2s?
I love your imagined dialogue, especially the Jane Austen. According to my own mother, the only writing worth doing is "technical writing." Whatever that is.