The Myth of the Wealthy, Best-Selling Author

When best-selling author Jackie Collins died last September, I went into a depression. Not so much because of the loss  of such a great talent - although I'm not ashamed to admit I've read and enjoyed some of Collins' so-called "trashy" books.

 

What depressed me was reading in Collins' final interview in People Magazine that her juicy novel "Hollywood Wives" sold 15 million copies. As is human nature, I couldn't help comparing my own work to Collins' amazing sales record.

I doubt if the sales of my novel, "The Chloe Chronicles," and the nonfiction book I co-wrote with Raymond Lambert, "All Jokes Aside: Comedy Is a Phunny Business," come anywhere close.

As the saying goes, comparison is the thief of joy and confidence.

Several months after Collins' death, just this past June, I came across a much more relatable writer. Author Neal Gabler's fascinating and eye-opening article, "The Secret Shame of Many Middle-Class Americans," in The Atlantic exposes the truth of many working writers.

 

Looking at Gabler's list of accomplishments, it would seem that he's "made it" and is living the American dream. He's won critical raves for his books, including a well-received biography of Barbra Streisand, written for television, holds a master's degree, has taught at prestigious colleges, and even had one of his works optioned by Oscar-winning filmmaker Martin Scorsese. 

 

But as Gabler reveals in The Atlantic article, he and his wife often struggle financially. He admits that like millions of Americans, there have been many times when he couldn't afford a $400 emergency without borrowing. 

 

Comparing Gabler and Collins is a study in contrasts. Collins lived a lavish life in Beverly Hills, while Gabler lives thriftily on the opposite coast in the Hamptons. As Gabler describes in his article, though the Hamptons have an image as the playground for the rich and famous, his modest house is situated where the "poor people" live year-round, unlike the vacation homes of the wealthy jet-set crowd.

Collins and Gabler represent two very different realities: Collins was like a character in one of her far-fetched plots, living in high style and rubbing shoulders with the Hollywood elite, while Gabler's humble lifestyle reflects the everyday life of many working folks, including us writers.

Reading about another accomplished writer also helped me put things into perspective. Earlier this year I read "The Last Interview and Other Conversations: Philip K. Dick," which contains a collection of interviews with the late science fiction writer. Since his death in 1982 at the age of 53, Dick has gained respect as a visionary writer whose novel "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?" was the basis for the classic sci-if flick "Blade Runner."

During his lifetime, however, Dick struggled to make ends meet. In one interview, he related that once when he was shopping for groceries, he found himself envying the cashier, who probably made more money than him.

Many of us writers have dreams of penning a bestseller - or, like Collins, penning multiple bestsellers and living a fabulous life in which our works rake in huge advances from mainstream publishers and a steady stream of royalties that enable us to quit our day jobs. In this fantasy, we can leave our financial concerns to a phalanx of accountants and business managers. And like Collins, we can live in a glamorous place like Beverly Hills, rolling out of bed each morning in our sprawling manses and retreating to our well-appointed home office to spend a few hours cranking out our next bestseller.

But for many of us writers, our realities are more like Gabler and Dick. We remain committed to telling our storiesm, but we must live within in our means and rely on incoming generated by day jobs, moonlighting gigs and/or supportive spouses and extended family who take up the slack while we pursue our dreams.

Is the struggle worth it? If you're someone for whom storytelling is a passion, then the answer is a resounding yes.

Gabler summed it up eloquently in his article: "I chose to become a writer, which is a financially perilous profession. ... I chose to write long books that required years of work, even though my advances would be stretched to the breaking point and, it turned out, beyond. We all make those sorts of choices. ... These are the choices that define who we are. We don't make them with our financial well-being in mind, though maybe we should. We make them with our lives in mind. The alternative is to be another person."

Memories of the Drexel

The Drexel Theatre, my hometown arthouse theater that showcases independent movies from around the world, reopens today after a $1.5 million renovation. 

I recently got a behind-the-scenes tour of the "new and improved" facility as part of an article I wrote for the current edition of the Bexley News. One of the coolest parts of the tour was seeing the projection room, where the magic of the moviegoing experience begins.

The projection room at the Drexel Theatre.

 

The Drexel is within walking distance of where I grew up in Columbus, Ohio, so I always thought of it as one of several neighborhood movie theaters that were going strong when I came of age in the '80s (long before the advent of the multiplex). One of my fondest memories of the Drexel is that it's the landmark where I was first exposed to independent cinema. As an eighth grader at Holy Spirit School, I snuck into an R-rated movie at the art deco picture palace.

I was otherwise a very well-behaved and obedient child, but one afternoon in 1985, I decided that instead of going straight home from school like I was supposed to, I'd head to the Drexel and check out what was playing. Like the rebellious character Gigi in my novel "The Chloe Chronicles," I bought a ticket to a tame PG-rated movie and proceeded to duck into a much more interesting R-rated feature instead.

I'm not sure why the comedy/drama "The Coca-Cola Kid" appealed to my 13-year-old sensibilities. Maybe because it was 1985 and "New Coke" had just come out and was all the rage.

Sitting in the darkened theater in my Catholic schoolboy uniform, I felt very sophisticated watching this sexy foreign film, which starred Aussie actress Greta Scacchi and American actor Eric Roberts (who rose to fame before his little sister, Julia; perhaps you've heard of her). 

"The Coca-Cola Kid" was the first indie movie that I bought a ticket to with my own money. Even as a sheltered middle-school kid, I could tell there was something different about this movie. It wasn't as formulaic and predictable as the mainstream movies that I voraciously consumed on cable TV in my grandparents' rec room.

Other fond memories of the Drexel:

Meeting actor Joe Morton. I don't remember the occasion that brought Morton to the Drexel, but interviewing him was one of my first assignments for the Call and Post Newspaper in the early '90s. The revered African-American actor is now famous for his role as Olivia Pope's father on "Scandal," but I knew him from the John Sayles indie classic "The Brother from Another Planet." Morton was easy to talk to, especially for the very shy, very green "cub reporter" that I was.

Meeting actor Leon Robinson. Another accomplished black actor, Robinson was in town to promote the movie "Once Upon a Time When We Were Colored." He was also easy to talk to when I interviewed him. I mentioned to him that I grew up watching him as the black saint who comes to life in Madonna's iconic "Like a Prayer" video. When I asked him what it was like working with the Material Girl, he said, "She's totally cool."

Supporting black cinema. Some of the best movies made by and starring African Americans, I've seen at the Drexel. These vehicles made outside the Hollywood mainstream defy stereotypes and present African Americans as three-dimensional human beings, including "Down in the Delta," "Daughters of the Dust," "To Sleep with Anger" and the above-mentioned "Once Upon a Time When We Were Colored," co-starring Robinson and Columbus native Al Freeman Jr.

Family outings. Seeing Robert Duvall's Christian drama "The Apostle" with my grandparents and my grandmother's sister, my Aunt Rudene, was a reel treat (pun intended). Bob and Pearl Bourne (the reason why their last name doesn't have an "A" on the end like mine is a long story) and Rudene Goolsby were never big moviegoers, so seeing a church-related film that we all could enjoy was one of the best moviegoing experiences of my entire life and one of my favorite memories of all time.

 

Is It Ever Okay To Go About Business As Usual After A Tragedy?

The nation is still reeling from the deaths of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile and the murder of five police officers and bystanders during a protest march in Dallas last week.

The racial and social-justice issues associated with these events affects all of us. As President Obama said, "This is not just a black issue. This is not just a Hispanic issue. This is an American issue that we all should care about."

But I would add that as an African American, and particularly as an African American who works in media, I feel particularly touched by these issues. I also feel a responsibility to comment on these issues on social media, to not just go about business as usual when tragedies like these occur.

And, unfortunately, tragedies like these are occurring with disturbing frequency.

As a writer and filmmaker, I depend on social media as an invaluable tool to raise awareness of my work. But, as many of us know, social media has its downsides.

When I awoke the morning of July 8, I was about to post my latest blog entry about the writing life. But when I turned on my computer and found out about the shootings in Dallas, I realized it would be inappropriate to "link-drop" my blog when so much pain and turmoil was going on in the world. 

At the least, self-promotion at a time like that would come across as being indifferent to such horrific incidents; at worst, insensitive.

Artists like myself who hold down day jobs are in a precarious position. On the one hand, you want to be "woke" - socially conscious, informed and engaged. On the other hand, my current and future employment often causes me to feel that I must walk on eggshells in fear that something I post could be misconstrued as offensive.

And it's so easy to offend these days.

I sometimes pre-schedule social media posts. While it may be convenient to write up tweets, Facebook comments and other social media posts in advance, you also run the risk of your pre-scheduled posts going out after a major tragedy has occurred overnight, making you look clueless and tasteless, as if you're like the infamous Emperor Nero, casually playing the fiddle as Rome burns.

What should be the guideline for when and when not to comment on a tragedy? When is it okay to go about business as usual without seeming as if you're uncaring?

In addition to the Dallas shootings, the deaths of Sterling and Castile and the Orlando nightclub tragedy last month, should I have also commented on the attacks at the Istanbul airport and in Baghdad? Does geographical and/or cultural distance from an event give you a free pass to ignore it? Of course not, but where do you draw the line?

These aren't easy questions and there are certainly no easy answers.