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."