On Not Making a Living as a Food Writer

What do I make instead?

I was in the dentist's office when a writerly dream came true. The same place where once, with my open mouth pointed to the skylight, the dentist remarked, "There's not much money in writing, is there." In the present, rather than powerless in the chair, I'm on the magazine rack: My article about Comal Food Books & Goods inside the Nov/Dec issue of PHOENIX.

How many years have I wanted to be published in a glossy? At least since I turned ten. My aunt gave me a bridal magazine – which sounds cringe – but it was more about the shiny pages, not a longing for marriage. Ornate buttercream flourishes, champagne bottles, candle-topped tables, and lipsticks like pomegranates and persimmons. Food and gloss and words captivated me, and I reached for them. At ten, I was better at following my pleasure.

Imagine I posted a photo of the magazine, with the page opened to my article: "I'm in the latest PHOENIX writing about Comal!" Or I wrote a note in this newsletter that you found through the mention of another writer. One might assume I make a living as a food writer. I don't. I don't make a living at all, talking strictly about income. Michael, my husband, makes a living for both of us, and I care for (and educate, for now) our children and am the adult at home full-time. Standing on the shoulders of our parents and grandparents, supported and increasingly aware of our instability, we keep asking each other, "Is this ok? Are we alright?" As years pass, children grow, prices soar, we know that our arrangement is a gift and a trap. So I write, I stay sharp, I keep a resume filled with an eye on the horizon. We practice living in a way that values my work regardless of what it makes right now. Freelancing, or working for myself, allows for this in between, this working-not working. Work that is amorphous and flexible—and liable to vanish if I stop pushing.

I’m in the latest PHOENIX writing about Comal!

As

Millicent Souris

wrote, freelancing is "a different word for hustling, pretending to work on my own terms. Anyone who works for themselves knows this is an illusion, a mirage." In May, I'll reach eleven years of freelancing, and I see that what I've given up and gained comes in close measure. My writing has taken its particular shape because, precisely, I haven't ever been forced to or chosen to be the breadwinner and because I've written while caring for my now four children without paying for childcare until last month. As with motherhood, writing is one of the occupations that makes my life worth living. And—The inside of the mirage is a circus mirror. Sometimes, I recognize myself; sometimes, I see another woman: the writer making a living. In my thirties, I know too much about how to appear and posture. Does presenting myself online as a "successful freelance writer" translate to getting more work? Or is it about my ego? Does sharing that I don't work full-time as a writer negate my credibility? Or is that ego again? These questions aren't rhetorical when the industry is so competitive. I push them aside most of the time to write about other things.

Giving advice is difficult because the question is broad, but the asker doesn't know it: "How'd you get published in PHOENIX?" Well, do you have all week to listen? Step one, I began following Arizona food obsessively fifteen years ago. Next, I went to journalism school and took a magazine writing class with a sophisticated and welcoming adjunct who made me think I could do it, too. (It was lost on me that she was teaching to supplement her magazine writing income.) Step three, I got married, had a baby, took one look at my son and the price of childcare, quit my radio job, and decided to go freelance. Step four, I wrote a lot for publications and businesses that folded, never launched, or I only remember when digging through my list of clips. Parallel to all that, I made friends in Phoenix who are also hustling, who I try to help and help me. The endless next step: KEEP GOING. But that's just my answer, and I've never been the fastest or sharpest.

Writers should have more opportunities to write and be paid well, and at the same time, making money isn't the only reason to write. The lineage of writers I aspire to join are those who wrote in and around their lives. Who cared for children or parents or were chronically ill or had a job they hated. They wrote when they could, their minds, like mine, scanning for open moments and finding supportive friends or family members. But writing anyway, even a few lines, when the support faltered or dissolved. A few eventually found money for their words and wrote more, but some worked in obscurity their whole life. I'm not against making money from writing (please hire me!), but I resist it as the only marker of success. Resisting the commodification of writing is also a personal survival mechanism–to help my love of writing persist into a future as yet unknown.

Being called an “Ohio native” makes me lol (I was born there but my family moved months later)

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The Good Enough Weekly comes out on Fridays, alternating essays and shorter updates. I also take on freelance editing and writing projects. Reach out if you’re looking for help in those departments — I’ve worked on everything from zines to textbooks.