It's not my fault you're not Shakespeare
Like many authors, Mason Currey created a newsletter on Substack, back in 2022 when it was an idealistic startup. Like many authors, Currey also felt uncomfortable about essentially asking for money, especially from people who’d already bought his books. A post explaining his rationale landed well with fellow creatives and loyal readers. But one respondent, Lynette, objected to this idea of patronage, pointing out that writers have chosen to make their living that way instead of doing a proper job. If the royalties aren’t enough, do something useful instead! She ends powerfully and incontrovertibly: “It’s not my fault you aren’t Shakespeare.”
Currey relates this exchange in his engrossing book, Making Art and Making a Living, in which he examines the collision of creative ambition with the necessity of paying the bills. Profiling writers and artists from the Renaissance to the present day, he shows that they variously relied on patrons, day jobs, strategic marriages, and even theft to make ends meet. As he explains in the introduction, this absolutely isn’t an advice manual. Instead, Currey wanted to understand these people and their world:
I want to see what attitudes people copped, what their instincts were and whether they listened to them, how they worked with and pushed back against their temperaments, how much latitude they gave themselves versus how strict they were with themselves, how seriously they took their own ambitions, how heavily or lightly they wore their various burdens, how much fun they had, how much energy, how much trust in things working out, how much bitterness or resentment, how much iron willpower versus gentle striving, how much hesitation, how much second-guessing[.] (6)
The artists and writers come alive on the page. I was entranced by cantankerous artist Grace Hartigan, obliged to pursue temp work so she could buy paint. She referred to one clerical job as “a miracle of stupidity” (65), a phrase I could add to several positions on my LinkedIn profile. Meanwhile, author Octavia Butler also recognised the necessity of working a series of “horrible little jobs” and writing in her spare time. (77) The profile of Virginia and Leonard Woolf was especially illuminating. Discussions of Virginia Woolf often focus on her mental and physical health, giving the impression that Leonard was doing most of the heavy lifting. But a combination of her small inheritance, hard work, and financial prudence kept them going in the years before her novels became bestsellers. Leonard explains their discipline:
"Neither of us ever took a day's holiday unless we were too ill to work or unless we went away on a regular and, as it were, authorized holiday. We should have felt it was not merely wrong but unpleasant not to work every morning for seven days a week and for about eleven months a year. Every morning, therefore, at about 9.30 after breakfast each of us, as if moved by a law of unquestioned nature, went off and "worked" until lunch at 1. It is surprising how much one can produce in a year, whether of buns or books or pots or pictures, if one works hard and professionally for three and a half hours every day for 330 days." (20)
I suspect I could produce a lot of buns in a year, but I’d probably eat most of them. I was struck by the specificity of “three and a half hours”. Trawling through my writing journal from the last six years, the periods where I’ve been most productive are when I was scribbling for just under four hours each day. It’s long enough to build a respectable momentum, but not long enough to get tired and ratty to the point where you don’t want to look at it again for a fortnight. In a week, that’s 24 hours’ writing. Even if you spend some of that time dithering, it’s still possible to produce a good chunk of words. And progress is wonderfully motivating.
Alongside their writing, the Woolfs were also running the Hogarth Press. If being a writer isn’t masochistic enough, start a small publishing house. I say this as someone who ran a tiny press for nearly 17 years. Although it brought a huge sense of achievement, it’s exhausting and depressing. To understand the woeful economics of 21st-century publishing, ask a small publisher. Make sure you have some tissues ready. By the time you’ve paid all the middlemen (a term I use advisedly), there’s bugger all left. Pretty much everyone in the chain takes a fixed percentage: the printer, the distributor, the retailer, the payments processor, the affiliate, and so on. Although books have become more expensive, the demise of the Net Book Agreement (RIP) means large retailers demand huge discounts so they can sell at low prices. Authors generally get a percentage-based royalty, but that’s often a percentage of the profits after everyone else has been paid. Oh, and that royalty only kicks in above a certain sales threshold.
Even books that sell in respectable numbers and get reviewed in the broadsheets rely on patronage. Their authors aren’t necessarily charging for newsletter subscriptions, but the acknowledgements page is often a roll call of gratitude express to funders, supporters, and hosts. It also costs money to write books, and I don’t just mean all the biscuits. A £20K advance might sound bountiful, but that needs to cover research trips, software subscriptions, and printer ink. Not to mention paying the bills, if you don’t have a partner who’s able to support you.
In short, big publishers and big authors make money, while everyone else is scratching around. Which brings me back to the original point: should we subsidise writers who aren’t Shakespeare? Most writers struggled financially, even the famous ones. Why should we expect to be any different in the 21st century? Some parrot the long-established advice: “Find a steady, predictable, well-paying professional career, carve out some time on the side for your creative work, dismiss any thought of making money from said work, and settle in for the long haul.” (77) But how do you find “a steady, predictable, well-paying professional career” in the 2020s? Especially one that leaves you with enough headspace to write. They are exceedingly rare.
Part of the skill in being any kind of creative is knowing how to maintain your livelihood. And having the willingness to assert your worth, even when detractors insist you’re a freeloader. As Currey’s book shows, the creative life demands many compromises, such as working soul-destroying jobs and buttering up patrons. Even though platforms like Substack offer a valuable income stream, they also take a large cut (although not as large as Apple’s cut if you subscribe through the app). Yes, it’s a privilege to be a full-time writer. But it also comes with additional responsibilities.
I support writers (including Currey) through Substack and similar platforms and also buy their books. This is partly because I’m familiar with the economics of publishing, but also because I’m paying them to think. It takes a long time to produce quality books. Do we want AI slop and books dashed off in six weeks? Currey explains: “I originally budgeted eighteen months for this project; I'm writing this sentence near the midpoint of month fifty-three.” (201) He could have written it quicker, no doubt, but it wouldn’t be as good. There's no substitute for a book like this, to which the author has dedicated years of research and craft. Given arts funding is currently circling the drain, those of us who value creatives need to help both defend and fund them.
Admittedly, Substack isn’t necessarily the best solution in the long-term. Quite apart from the increasing ethical concerns, the financial model is inflexible: you can’t set your own rates and readers are required to pay a minimum subscription of $5 per month for each author they follow. I’ve noticed that some authors are posting every day to offer “value for money”. I’d rather hear from them fortnightly so they have enough time to work on their books. For now, though, platforms like Substack, Ghost, and Patreon allow us to support writers and hear from them between books. It’s fine not to subscribe, but it’s unfair to criticise writers for trying to support themselves. As Currey writes, there’s a “stingy, withholding, resentful energy that seems to be trending in our society” (201) We need to start supporting each other’s livelihood more.
I’m really glad Currey was able to finish his book. He embraces the messy reality of making a living from your art, crafting that messiness into an elegant read. It’s not Shakespeare (sorry Mason), but it will invigorate many creatives.
Making Art and Making a Living: Adventures in Funding a Creative Life by Mason Currey (2026)
