Confessions of a blue collar writer

fame and fortune isn't everything

Grandfather Beckett (center) with a military aide from Drew Field (now Tampa International Airport) and a pressman at the St. Petersburg Times, (circa 1940s)

With the best of intentions my grandfather gave me some advice that might have affected my life had I listened to him.

“Don’t become a writer,” he said. “You’ll never make any money.”

Granddad knew a thing or two about writers, money, and the wide gulf separating the two. He’d spent his entire career in the publishing business. Not as a writer. He was on the production side of things. By working with his hands and his head he and his peers produced thousands upon thousands of newspapers that informed and entertained the public. Their efforts wrapped a lot of fish and lined a lot of trash cans the next day, too.

Over the course of a 50-year career granddad put out something on the order of 18,262 editions, more or less. Starting as a printer’s devil at the Clearwater News in the early part of the 20^th Century, he made his way to the coveted position of Production Manager at the Hartford Courant. The oldest continuously published newspaper in the United States.

He was number three in the corporate pecking order. A high honor for a man who had a third-grade education from an institution in the deep south that was built of scrap wood and palm fronds. Still, he knew things. “You’ll make more money working with your head than working with your back,” he told me.

He told me a lot of things. Many of which were worth paying attention to. But his advice to avoid a career as a writer was not one of the pearls of wisdom I committed myself to. I write. I’ve always written. It’s what I do.

While speaking to a writer’s workshop at Florida Southern College a few years back I referred to myself as a blue-collar writer. I had never described myself that way before, but I liked the way those words illustrated my status in the industry. So, I stuck with it. Proudly so. I truly am a blue-collar writer.

I’ve published several fictional titles under my own name. To the dismay of many I do not market them well, if at all. Hence, they are not best sellers. A fact that has never caused me to lose a moment’s sleep. I’ve been a contributing editor to a number of non-fiction educational publications as well. The money was good, but the personal satisfaction was low. That’s not a trade-off that interests me all that much.

Over the past 34 years I’ve published something at least once a week. I’m pretty sure this qualifies me as a writer. Not a wealthy writer. Not a sensation who is feted at parties with the beautiful and fabulous. Not a single movie director has suggested they would like to turn one of my fictional works into a summer blockbuster at the box office. No, I’m just a writer. A blue-collar writer who enjoys something more valuable than money. Although to be fair, I have never turned up my nose at a paycheck in exchange for 1,000 words in print.

Like so many writers, I have often had a day job. A gig that pays the bulk of the bills, puts a few dollars into an Individual Retirement Account, and provides the illusion that I am a normal guy who does normal things in a normal way.

Nothing could be further from the truth. I’m a dreamer. A lost soul who searches for meaning and order in life through the ideas I am fortunate enough to put down for posterity.

I haven’t written for the money in decades. Rather, I write what appeals to me, exclusively. That is what led me here, to Substack.

While I am not in a tax bracket that would suggest I exist surrounded by great wealth, monetarily speaking – I do enjoy the greatest gift a human being can receive. Long ago I gave myself the freedom to write only about issues and topics that appeal to me. In effect, I gave myself permission to be free of the burden of public acceptance. I am entirely liberated when I’m at the keyboard. I’ve spoiled myself and I like it.

I predominantly work alone. In isolation I am comfortable. The work progresses at a pace I find acceptable. I write often. Not every day as a rule, but certainly every other day at least. I long ago got comfortable with referring to myself as a writer. That has been true even when the bulk of my personal income came from efforts other than writing. Just as an actor is an actor even when they’re tending bar or waiting tables, a writer is a writer no matter where they go, what they do, or who they are with.

Years ago, I tried to solve the isolation problem by joining a writer’s group. I joined several over the years. Always to my great dissatisfaction.

There is one writer’s group meeting that sticks in my memory and reminds me why I am content in my self-imposed isolation at the keyboard. It was held in the library of a nearby town. I attended with high hopes, although I didn’t know a soul in the room. The men and women who made up the group sat quietly at a long, highly polished oak table. The ringleader of the organization explained that she always started each meeting by encouraging the attendees to introduce themselves, state their profession, and describe the project they’re working on.

We went around the table. Each individual did as they were instructed. More than one was engaged in a freshman novel that exceeded 1,000 pages. None of them were finished. There were still hundreds more pages to write.

Ugh.

They described themselves as personal assistants, math teachers, receptionists, and insurance salesmen. When my turn rolled around I told the truth. My name is Jamie Beckett. I’m a writer. I’m hoping to finish a novel this year and self-publish it. I’ve decided to self-publish solely to realize the benefit of maintaining my copyrights.

“Yes,” the group leader said. “but what do you do? Professionally.”

“I’m a writer,” I reiterated.

“Yes,” she pressed. “but what do you do for work? How do you earn your living?”

“I’m a writer,” I said. “I write a weekly column for a national publication. I freelance for the local newspaper and I’m working on a novel that’s fighting back at the moment.”

I was surprised to find that as a group they were confused. Totally perplexed. Not one person at the table could conceive of the idea that a real person sitting close enough to reach out and touch was paying rent, buying groceries, and putting gas in the car with money made from writing.

Yes, this was a writer’s group populated entirely by people who didn’t believe that writing was a real profession. It was something else. Something unreal, but fun to dream about.

And so ended my flirtation with writer’s groups.

In retrospect I realize the advice I got as a teenager was solid. It was absolutely prescient and true. Granddad had a point. I have not made a boatload of money as a writer. But I did find a way to pay for my house, keep the pantry stocked, and go on vacation now and then. And I got to do what I want to do, when I want to do it, with no concern that somebody somewhere might not care for my choices.

All in all that strikes me as success. Enough for me, anyway.