For the Love of Coppers #writingintheoryandpractice
Chatting with several writerly chums the last few days and there seems to be a common thread that crops up in these conversations. Yeah, not hard to guess what, right? Rhymes with honey… It seems that all our pockets are light and stomachs empty. And these guys can turn a phrase. Not a hack among them. And yet, month in and month out, it’s a struggle.
Some are holding down multiple jobs and carving out what time they can to chase a dream with little return for their efforts, despite their obvious talents.
Is it the hard truth that there is no money to be had? And if not, then why do we suffer for it? Obviously someone’s being paid. Far too often, it’s not the author, to be sure. It seems everyone is worthy of a decent wage, except the artists themselves.
This is a truth across the boards, be you musician, artisan, or a scribbler of words.
The distributor wants it for pennies, while the audience wants it for free.
And the artist bleeds, be it in notes, or inks, or letters…
But bleed we must, because we have a sickness.
As I reflect on this, during this witching season, as we watch summer’s green give way to autumn’s rich palette, I embrace the long shadows of winter’s approach.
Regardless of the coin that crosses these palms, the words and pictures demand their ascent out of the well of bleak imaginings that make this haunted head their residence.
It is a sick compulsion, fettered to the exigency of words, these tumbling runes and sacrosanct sigils that form sentient constructs from the festering dark.
And so to the madness, I cling.
Let the pennies fall from the heavens and I shall hold my ground, eyes up and mouth open, to drown in the copper torrent.