On the Realties of Being a Writer

I remember teaching creative writing through Dufferin County Continuing Education. Every year I’d have about 15-20 students the first week, many starry-eyed with visions of best-sellers dancing in their heads. Right from the outset I’d disabuse them of that notion, citing facts that less than 1% of all book and novel submissions ever make it to an acquisitions editor let alone publication.
The next week the class would be half the size. They’d start submitting their work to class and instructor critique. Most were hesitant to say anything critical. And then they’d get my critique. By the following two weeks the class reduced by half again, so that for the remaining six weeks we’d have a serious, dedicated and committed (perhaps clinically) group of writers who were all about honing their craft and nothing about fast tracks to fame and fortune.
I am pleased to say that at least one of their number went on to become a successful freelance journalist, and by successful I mean she was able to support herself and her son through her writing earnings.
More than I could say of my own financial success.
Which brings me to the point of this post.
Way back in the early ’90s I sold a short story, Smile of the Goddess, to Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Sword and Sorceress 10. I was paid a modest fee for a story I still think is little better than schlock. Part of the sale included a pro-rata share of royalties on the anthology in perpetuity.
Yesterday my annual royalty statement arrived from the MZB Literary Works Trust, this for Italian editions of the book. A cheque was enclosed. $1.79US.
Yep. $1.79US.
I think I’ll go get a medium double double from Timmy’s with that. Oh, and change to boot.