I started writing about why I formed an LLC for my publishing business. Then I realized I was missing something. Something big.
I was missing the answer to the question: why make it a business at all? Opening an LLC presumes that you want to charge money for your creative work. Is that really necessary?
Amie McNee has informed a lot of my thinking on this, and you can get a taste of her perspective in “Should you monetise your hobby?”
Most of creative outlets are never intended for sale, and that’s wonderful. Among the things I do just for the helluvit: embroidery, party planning, painting, chalk drawing, mending, dance.
I also feel no shame in asking for your money in exchange for my writing.
Even if you don’t need the money
My privilege is that I don’t need the money from selling my art. Our household is financially stable at the moment. It doesn’t matter if my books are hugely profitable.
My modest hope is that my book sales can eventually fund my coffee runs when my husband & I are living retired life.
(Not that I ever plan to retire—my other modest hope is that this creative practice can keep my mind young long after that.)
It will all be OK whether the books sell or not. I’m going to keep writing either way.
So why not just give my art away for free? Well, I do plan to be generous with free copies for those who need them, but…
Selling the work makes it more “real”
I always knew that when I finished Ring of the Axe, I would sell it. Not just distribute it to friends or enjoy it privately. That was always the plan—I never second guessed it.
Money raises the stakes. It demands strategic thinking. I like that. I like to watch data and measure growth. I’d love to fund a book tour. I want to reinvest my earnings to pay editors and cover artists.
For some art, nobody questions the money
As president of a community theater, I have a vivid look into how the exchange of money makes the creation feel even more real, more heightened, more tenuous.
Nobody bats an eye when it comes to buying a ticket to a musical, even if it is amateur. The medium (lights, costumes, space, musicians) is just way too expensive to put it on without funding from the audience.
(And speaking of an incredible theater experience, now I will shamelessly plug Middleton Players Theatre season tickets)
An exchange of money is an exchange of trust
I’ll give you $18 for a book or $80 for a theater ticket or $800 for a painting—and I’m also giving you my trust that you’re doing your best to bring good art into my brain or my home.
If you get something for free, you haven’t been asked to make an upfront investment of your resources (money).
Once you have made that financial investment, don’t you feel more likely to give the thing your other precious resource: attention?
In all this exchange of resources and trust, we are building a connection. A dialogue (even if we only ever really hear our own side of it). And that that’s the whole point, isn’t it? Right?
Money tainting art?
There’s a narrative among artist that money tinges the creative process. That greedy green stuff can sour the work. The consumer’s expectations add pressure that wasn’t there when you’re doing it purely for fun.
I don’t feel too much pressure or hang-up about this (but task me again when my book actually goes on sales and I start writing the next one).
Besides, I can think of way worse things than trying to delight your audience (like trying to appease an algorithm). I have a few key readers that I think of when I write. If they are amused, then I’m happy. And if I amuse myself, I’m happy.
Am I worried about money tainting my art? Nah.
The lack of art clots our creativity
(a short tirade about the internet these days)
I’ve heard that creativity is just the output of all the experiences and art and conversations and other inputs. I buy that. Each pipette of an idea drips into the well, where a bubbling alchemy turns them into something new.
That would mean that the quality of what we consume is absolutely bedrock to the quality of what we create, right? Maybe that’s not a given, but it feels critically important now to INVEST in good inputs with our time (and money, when we can).
When I think about negative influences on my creativity, I think about the deluge of monotonous and toxic and algorithm-friendly tidbits I tend to collect most days.
Much better to spend our attention and our dollars to create the culture that we want to be a part of.
I’m greedy
You can call me greedy.
Sure, I’m greedy for your money. Buy my book (when it’s out). Or my merch (when I get my website running). Let me put that money to good use paying other artists and buying myself lattes.
Mostly, I’m greedy for your trust. Greedy for a connection with you, the reader. I giggle with delight when I write a joke that I think might make you laugh. I squirm with glee when I build tension in a way that makes you feel it too. I want to make you feel something, take you on a wild ride, and hear from your after it’s done.
And always, I’m greedy for your attention. I just hope I can get good enough to make it worth your while :)
