The value of my time
What is the value of my time? If I was working in retail, I might perhaps earn £8.50 an hour, though it’s quite a while since I did, so I may have my rates wrong. If I were a typist in an office, a bit more, if I were a junior partner in a legal firm, a bit more still. As an author? Pause for embarrassed silence.
But why? We spend years investing in our books, to say nothing of the cost of producing a product which has all its dots and commas in the right place. That time is valuable, and – as I think I many have mentioned – is not coming back to us.
We can’t really value our worth by the accumulation of our possessions, so what is left to us is the space and hope we call time. Our most precious asset. So, when someone asks me to help with a project, it is worth pausing to check, “How long is this going to take me? Will I enjoy it? Do I get any pleasure out of doing this, any pleasure for its own sake?”
If the answer is no – and I have no perceived choice – just get that ask done quickly and then whizz off out of there asap; and if the answer is no, not one whit, of course not, then I’d be better to find some polite way of saying so and getting back to what I prefer doing.
But conversely, just because we love writing, does that mean we should not expect to get paid for it? Or receive the cover price for a book we have authored – from which we will have deduct the outlays – or to get recognition for the time and effort of carting books around, laying them out so carefully so they don’t get spoiled, signing them and offering them for sale?
In an ideal world, we would all be supported for being creative, but until that time comes, it’s worth pausing to ask ourselves how much we value our time, and whether, if push comes to shove, we are comfortable advocating for ourselves, so that we value what we do. After all, if we can get back some of the value of what we do, that will enable us to keep doing what we value.
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June 7, 2018
Writers block reconsidered
Fran Macilvey Happiness Matters, The Rights & Wrongs of Writing, Women's fiction and chic lit 2 Comments
Writers block reconsidered
I’m going to assume, for the purposes of this post, that writer’s block exists, and that there are those of us writers who simply find it impossible – or have found it impossible – to write.
For anyone for whom the soothing routines of writing seem like a distant dream, I can offer a few ideas that might help to remove writer’s block.
~ If we are tired, let us rest, without judgement about our failure today, to write our usual four thousand words. “But I always manage three thousand words a day,” is a most unhelpful stick to beat ourselves up with. It’s never about the word count. One good sentence, or paragraph fix is worth more than all our good intentions, or angst over our failed targets.
~ I sense that somewhere in among the complex reasons why we writers get blocked, is the notion that we should be writing, because we always do, or because someone or other expects us to. Maybe we are bored, isolated, in need of a change and fresh air. Nothing wrong with that. So let’s take time off when we need it, to smell the coffee and meet other people. If that feels wrong, call it research.
~ I call the purely creative stage of writing, Stage One; and I suspect that writer’s block is our reaction to judgement and expectations about our writing at the wrong time. We reflect and judge Stage One writing, when all we are doing, at that stage, is tipping our words – any words! – onto the page. Writer’s block surfaces when we start editing or censoring our creative outpourings, instead of simply allowing them release. Of course there will be all kinds of things to change, to modify; but at Stage One, writing simply has to flow and leap and dance, a process in which our intellects have little place, and cannot comment on. Compare and contrast, reflect and refine all come later.
~ Worse still, writer’s block – the refusal to co-operate with what we think we expect – surfaces when we write for the critics, those in our heads, and those pestering us with phone-calls and deadlines. We write what other people want us to write, instead of accepting that our styles change, our preferences evolve, as with any living, creative aspect of ourselves.
~ It seems unfair to blame an inability to write on our career as a writer. Our inability to summon a single sentence or paragraph may have nothing whatever to do with our writing ability, and may be due to outside factor(s) such as worry about money, caring for a suddenly sick friend or relative, being tired all the time, needing to eat more fruit and veg. So, instead of saying, “I have writer’s block at the moment, it’s simply awful,” consider that there are many factors that go into a blank page, and resist the urge to condemn oneself for apparent weakness. Instead, focus on feeling better and do what it takes to bring the joy back into life; joy which, in whatever form, is what spews on the page when we are in Stage One writing.
Thanks for reading.
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