A few weeks after the release of The Ballad of Abdul Wade I was signing books on the second floor of Dymocks in Sydney. A gentleman approached me and said, ‘Congratulations on the book. I know how much effort it takes to write a book.’ I thanked him for the compliment and reached for the next copy to sign. He tapped a long finger on the stack of books and said ‘Do you ever stop to consider that long after you’re dead, this book will still be here? Will still be sold in shops and people will see your name and wonder who you were?’ I admitted that I hadn’t. He shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Well, again, congratulations on the book,’ and offered his fist for a fist bump, which I bumped. Then he drifted off into the aisles of the travel section, leaving me, pen poised in mid-air, contemplating my own mortality.
It’s early August, cold and wet, and I’ve just finished signing some books in a Melbourne bookstore. It could be in Carlton or St Kilda or Moonee Ponds, I’m not sure as I’ve visited around 20 stores in two and a half days. I am returning to my car and in front of me there is a homeless man standing on the footpath outside of a Woolworths metro. He isn’t begging, he has no sign asking for anything, he’s not playing an instrument or whistling a tune, he is just standing there, a pile of old bags and rags at his feet. A lady approaches him, makes some small talk and then hands him a ten dollar note. Just like that. Ten dollars. And as I walk past, I uncharitably think to myself, that’s three books.
I have to sell three books to get that kind of money. Because since my book came out, that is how I think, my life is now divided into tiny slices, each slice representing $3.30. Because for every book I sell, that is the amount I receive. This, in the industry, is known as the royalty, but there is really nothing regal about it.
There is no money in books. Actually, that’s not quite true. In 2021, the Australian book industry generated $1.3 billion in sales. A truer statement would be that there is no money in writing books, not for the majority of writers. A recent survey by the Australian Society of Authors found that 80% of Australian authors earn less than $15,000 per year and a whopping 60% of authors earn less than $2,000 per year. The reality is, of the large amount of books published every year, very few go on to sell in commercially viable quantities. In a recent US court case involving two publishing companies, testimony was given that 90% of all books published sell less than 2,000 copies. In Australia, between 2018 and 2020 only 1% of books published sold over 1,000 copies. With a royalty of $3.30, statistically, I am likely to receive less than $3,300 for a book it took three years to write. It makes for grim reading, and grimmer writing.
Every writer dreams of getting into the top 1% of books that sell, of being the author that actually makes money. And to do that you have to market the book. And marketing a book takes money and the majority of that money is coming from the author. You may be thinking, ‘well, you have the advance from the publisher to cover these costs.’ Which in theory is true, but in reality my advance is scattered around the bars and pasta joints of Italy in what I like to think of as a post pandemic economic stimulus package. I will not apologise for that.
The Australian Society of Authors publishes a guide to pay rates for writers. The rate for library appearances is potentially $313 per hour. I say potentially, because so far I’ve given seven library talks with gross income of a jar of homemade chilli jam and a packet of beef jerky, for net income of minus quite a bit.
Even so, here I am getting ready for another library talk, this time in Wangaratta. It’s a seven-hour drive, so I know I am going to have to fuel up the Barina a few times (at $70, or 21 books, per tank), and pay for accommodation and food. If my book doesn’t get into that 1% of top sellers, not only am I not making money, but I am now actively losing money.
Nobody is forcing me to do the talks, so why do them? I’ve spent years writing this book, to not put everything behind it now would be a betrayal of that effort. I feel a paternal duty to get out there and tell the world about it, the economic consequences be damned.
I started this out of office journey with the goal of trying to build a creative life outside the office. I gave up a well-paid job, stability and in my mind conformity. It has been 10 months now and I’m convinced that you cannot make a living writing books. They take too long to write, and the returns are too small and too precarious. That is not to say I can’t make a living writing. The world is constructed from stories, people relate to and connect with each other, their communities and to businesses through stories. There will always be work for story tellers, those who can write and communicate an idea, a feeling, a purpose. I’m still trying to find my place in the economic ecosystem of storytelling. I’m writing more than ever; articles, columns, newsletters like this one. But at the end of the day, I can’t survive on words alone, not until the local bakery starts accepting witty aphorisms as payment for a loaf of bread.
The path I have chosen is rewarding in other ways and I have experienced moments that I could have never hoped to have experienced making cold calls on behalf of the Federal Government. I have met incredible people, been energised by conversations and ideas and had time to let my mind wander far out past the limits of an office cubicle. Possibly it is the freedom I have enjoyed most. The freedom to be wherever I want to be without having to file a form on an internal human resources platform and wait for the approval of somebody who can’t recall my name; the freedom to control what I accept and what I do not accept.
The uncertainty, the instability, for myself but even more so for those around me who live with the consequences of my decisions, has been hard. But even in that adversity, there is a sense of pride, that I have set my own path, it has not been dictated to me, it has been of my own choosing, and somehow that makes it a little easier.
I am aware that there is no point of arrival on this path. No moment when everything will make sense, when trumpets will sound, confetti will fall and a great prize will be delivered and every yearning will be satisfied. There is only this continual progression, and a constant choosing of how I want to live my life. If I can continue to keep choosing what is right for me, if I can be strong enough to turn my back on the expected, the easy, the path that led me to a place of dissatisfaction and unwellness, then I think I am going to be alright.
I finally make it to the Wangaratta library. I meet a man there called Mike. He arrived with his two daughters and brother-in-law. In the 1970s, as a young man, he had travelled through Afghanistan on what he called ‘the hippy trail’. Fascinated by Afghan culture, later, as a married man he and his wife had travelled all over Australia following in the footsteps of the Afghan cameleers. At the end of the talk Mike purchases a book and asks me to sign it. ‘Just write, “To Mike, from Dianne”. With two Ns,’ he adds. I sign the book. Mike moves away and one of his daughters approaches me, thanks me for the talk, it had meant a lot to her father. Then she tells me that Dianne, her mother, had died unexpectedly just three days earlier. Her parents had planned to attend the talk together. The book was meant to be a Christmas present from Dianne to Mike.
I view the book now, as I sometimes view myself, as a small flame that is waiting for the wind. Whether that wind blows or not is of little importance. That little flame will always be there, illuminating a small corner of the world, long after my own is extinguished.
BONUS
A few weeks back I had the privilege of appearing on the Daily Routines podcast, hosted and created by the wonderful Skye Manson. The podcast provides insights into the daily routines of people and how they get through the day. If you would like to listen to my bad habits, my go-to pasta recipe, what I am drinking and what I am listening to you can do so here:
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