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Wednesday 3 August 2016

Free not free

I read a thing this morning. The thing, written by artist Rebekah Joy Plett, said this:

"When you buy from an independent artist, you are buying more than just a painting. You are buying hundreds of hours of experimentation and thousands of failures.

You are buying days, weeks, months, years of frustration and moments of pure joy. You are buying nights of worry about paying the rent, having enough money to eat, having enough money to feed the children, the birds, the dog.

You aren’t just buying a thing, you are buying a piece of heart, part of a soul, a private moment in someone’s life.

Most importantly, you are buying that artist more time to do something they are truly passionate about; something that makes all the above worth the fear and the doubt; something that puts the life into the living.”

I don't have a dog or birds. I have children and a hamster-by-proxy. However romantic homelessness-because-creative may seem, the reality is that I like roofs, particularly over my head. And Haribo. I like Haribo.

I have written for free. Most writers have. Many publications ALLOW free writings because it is an HONOUR to be included, and, you know, it DOES feel good to have another website featuring your name when you Google yourself. Particularly one which is read and enjoyed by real people. But you need to know this: that website, it makes MILLIONS of pounds yet it doesn't chuck a hundred quid bone to writers with dogs and birds and hamsters-by-proxy.

Just to be contrary, I want to point out that sometimes I like writing for free. Some literary magazines make just under enough money to keep going, and if I'm INCLUDED I feel proud. I will waive my ten pound payment because the magazine is important. I'll be a HERO.

I wrote a book. I called it Volcano. It took a while from conception to finale, and it ate a bit of me. I wrote much of it whilst drunk and I did that pacing thing – clutching a glass of vodka and coke; thinking; twiddling my hair; smoking; rubbing my eyes; feeling my brain wobble inside my head. I published it on Amazon. Occasionally, I sell a copy. I make royalties. £1.65 a download. That's one whole bag of Haribo-on-offer with change to put towards the next.

A month ago, I decided to pay a tenner to advertise Volcano on Facebook. I offered free downloads for a week, and gave away just under 400 copies. 400 real actual downloads. Amazing. I GLOWED with happiness. Just imagine that number of sales if they generated money. SIX HUNDRED AND SIXTY cold hard coins. So I advertised again. But this time the download – the ten years of work, the hundred bottles of vodka, all the cigarettes – cost TWO POUNDS AND EIGHTY-EIGHT PENCE. Less than a six pack of Diet Coke to top up that vodka. Less than a hamster-by-proxy. Two and nearly-a-third bags of Haribo-on-offer.

I sold three copies.





The Girl Who Does Writing For Money