Why Don't I Share Anything About My Journey as a Writer With My Family?
I feel like an ungrateful person hanging on to a video game. But I have no choice
![My family members are not my target audience. They don't know the mechanism of online writing. They would ask if I can monetize and how much I'm earning from content creation. My family members are not my target audience. They don't know the mechanism of online writing. They would ask if I can monetize and how much I'm earning from content creation.](https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fce10de5c-6be2-47e8-8f94-4b4dae480534_800x534.jpeg)
I’m really sorry for not sharing anything with them.
When they ask me to let them read something, I handpick a very generic and neutral text.
I create a PDF and send it via email.
I feel ungrateful. Miserable. Like a black forest bear, hiding in a dark cave carved out of volcanic rock by the weather.
But I can’t share my strategies, theories, publications, or beliefs with them.
My family is not my target audience because they would create a thousand doubts, raise endless objections, and ask a sea of questions about the value of my work.
Not understanding the mechanics of online writing, they would ask if all my daily writing is leading to anything concrete, how much I’ve earned so far, and if the hours I spend in my study are really worth it.
How much did you get paid for this article? They asked me this question after reading the last PDF.
How much did I get paid?
But is that a question to ask someone who is building an audience with written words? First of all, who should pay me? And then, based on what rate would this exchange of money occur?
It’s really too generic and senseless a question to ask someone who is trying to build their reputation and online presence from scratch.
So, do you want to know how much I earned for this lousy 1500-word article, which I chose from 600 others that I will never let you read?
They paid me $0.78. It took me 3 hours to put it together, and I mulled over it for 3 entire days. I stayed in the shower much longer than necessary because, for me, this humid place is the best generator of ideas. I woke up every night and disturbed the house with the light from my phone to take notes that I would inevitably forget by morning. Once, I even got up from the dinner table to jot down a note. Finally, during the 3 hours of writing, I had a heated argument with my wife because, while I was writing, I didn’t notice the dog needed to go out.
This article cost me 3 days of work, 5 cubic meters of hot water at 46°C, a missed dinner, and 36 hours of bad mood in the house.
And when I pressed the Publish button, it felt like a relief, but also like a childish act. As if I were playing video games, having fun scoring points in a pointless and noisy game that takes precious time away from my family.
Does a pay rate of $0.26 an hour justify all this work and the shared discomfort?
Family members don’t understand that writing often involves work that only shows its economic value in a time that simply isn’t now.
Family members believe there’s a counter where people line up to collect their article. I’m sitting comfortably behind the glass. I write and pass the freshly printed sheet under the designated slot.
Here you go, dear lady, your lovely 800-word article. It’s $80. Thank you for your business, and feel free to come back anytime. Next please.
This is what my family would dream for me. A quick exchange of product for money. Period.
They want this for me. They want it for my sake. And I love them for this, because they would never try to put me in a difficult position or place obstacles in my way.
Yet, if I shared my journey as a writer with them, they would place obstacles every day for my own good.
I earned $0.78.
Yes, indeed. An absurdly low figure that makes me ashamed of myself and the profession I am trying to invent with all my might.
I’m 55 years old. How can I not feel deeply embarrassed, even in front of those who know me as well as I know myself, when I say I earn just a few cents for work that took me 3 days of intellectual effort?
I don’t know. They seem not to understand this dynamic.
They dwell on the fact that it’s a pittance, and look at me with questioning eyes, seeking my confirmation of their revelation.
They don’t do it out of malice. They’re simply pointing out an obvious inconsistency to set me on the right path.
Even if I shared my work with them, and with time they stopped saying I should get paid much more, I would still see in their eyes the usual objections, the belief that I am worth more than this desolation, and that the readers don’t deserve me.
Wouldn’t it be better to do something else instead of wasting time on these things?
Writing is your passion, and we want you to keep it among your most precious things. But this passion makes you unhappy, tormented, it disturbs your dreams, wakes you up at night, pulls you away from your family.
You are absent. Lost in your thoughts.
We want you to be satisfied with your work, and then when you are done working, you can devote as much time as you want to your beloved writing.
$0.78 for all this work is not a sustainable condition. Listen to us.
They don’t say these things, but they think about them. I am certain of it.
I don’t think about it. I don’t want to. I must not think about the $0.78. I just create a weak and transparent PDF to send in CC, and then move on. Focused on my few-cent papers that I scribble on between a plate of spaghetti with sauce and a tomato salad.
If I only gave in to their kind persuasions, I would enter a time capsule, become a child again with a 78-cent coin between my fingers, ready to insert it into the mechanism of my favorite game: online writing.
The coin drops into the metal box glued under the table, and I have 3 hours to write, without distractions and without worries.
If I only gave in to their kind persuasions, I would enter a time capsule, become a child again with a 78-cent coin between my fingers, ready to insert it into the mechanism of my favorite game: online writing.
The coin drops into the metal box glued under the table, and I have 3 hours to write, without distractions and without worries.
My parents step back slightly from me. They watch me, proud of how smart I am. Pleased, they whisper to each other, imagining my professional career. An established practice, a few employees under my supervision. A beautiful wooden desk, a minimalist designer lamp, and a messenger bag full of tasks and technology.
I keep writing until the time runs out. The mechanism clicks, and the 78 cents are gone.
See, my child, how long 78 cents last? How can you live on such a salary? What can you accomplish?
You can just write 800 words.
You write very well. That’s a fact. Why don’t you devote yourself to this passion on Sundays when you’re at home? Maybe, who knows, you could win some competitions. There are many professionals who have writing as a hobby.
But as a job, absolutely not. How can you believe someone will seek you out to write for them?
End of story.
The 78-cent coin is there, motionless in the box.
We look at each other. Me, on one side, waiting for this elusive client who longs for my writings. Them, on the other, impossible to convince. Unyielding, granite-like. Monuments to the heroes fallen on the battlefields of online writing.
The positions are immovable. There are no options for discussion. No premises for coming closer.
Every second I spend in this limbo is a gram of confidence in my enthusiasm that flies away, torn by the wind of demotivation.
The only tactic to adopt is retreat, before my writer’s boundaries start to blur into the surrounding skepticism.
You won’t see my written words by my hand. That much is certain.
SEO will run its course. The platforms I’m active on will do what they need to do, displaying traces of my presence in their feeds, showcasing my content-filled profiles.
I don’t care. The internet is a free world where anyone can discover and be amazed, even by what’s happening in their own home.
But for now, everything related to state secrets protect my writing.
When my earnings are no longer a source of distrust, I’ll open the museum. I’ll organize a guided tour along the timeline of my content, and I won’t deny that I’ll get a rush of pleasure in finally showing how my insights were correct, while my family’s skepticism was unfounded.
Until then, I ask them to tolerate my silence.
I realize my behavior might seem aloof, offensive.
I love them all. Very much. But in these months, I don’t need any more doubts. I already have my own to handle. And they are enough.
I hope none of my family members ever read this post. But I know they will soon. They are intelligent and curious, and that makes it easy to follow a series of links to this conclusion.
But I want to be honest. This doesn’t trouble me. On the contrary, it secretly makes me happy.
I am aware that my family understands my true motivations, and they let me be.
They are my silent readers.