Breaking the Bank

But for a reason I feel good about. (Or am trying to.)

Nanzeeba Ibnat/Getty Images

I’m not sure why I paid $150 to a popular psychic if I wasn’t going to follow the most simple, sound advice she offered. It was 1993, I was 28, and she delivered two pearls of wisdom I ultimately ignored.

1. “Don’t give up the apartment.” See: Goodbye to All That.

2. “Don’t steal from your own pocket.” In other words, be careful with your money; save it.

I didn’t have much money to worry about being careful with in the early 90s. Unfortunately, every time since then, when I’ve been even a little flush, I’ve spent too freely.

Lately I’ve broken some personal records on that front, hurting myself financially, but in the interest of something I’m proud of: being supportive of other writers—paying for subscriptions to their newsletters, and paying them (too many of them, too much) to contribute to Oldster Magazine and Memoir Land.

I’ve been reluctant to publicly share this New York Times article I was quoted in over the weekend by Logan Sachon, in which I reveal that until late March I was paying for subscriptions to 127 newsletters. I’ve felt embarrassed about spending so much, and without really even being aware of it. It was only when Logan pressed me to go into my Substack settings and count how many of the, gulp, 715 newsletters I subscribe to I was actually paying for, that I realized I was, in fact, stealing from my own pocket.

After we got off the phone I unsubscribed from about half of them, beginning with those by writers who, on closer inspection, posted rarely or never. (Please don’t do this.) I’m still paying for more subscriptions than I can afford, and I need to revisit the list. But it pains me to unsubscribe from newsletters by writers I like and care about.

What’s more, I want this business model—the one in which readers directly support writers—to be sustainable. I need this business model to be sustainable. It’s all I’ve got, now that traditional media and publishing are irreparably broken. There are virtually no jobs left in my field, and the few that remain aren’t going to an almost-60-year-old.

I’ve believed that if I wanted this model to work, I had to support it, too. And so I have. A little overzealously.

***

After the article was published, when some people who’d read it reached out and I told them I felt ashamed, every one of them said I should instead be proud, because my intentions were good, and I was doing a kindness. I’m trying to own that, instead of berating myself.

But I was already berating myself when the article appeared, because the month before I got hit with a massive tax bill that ate a huge portion of my bank account. My ignorance about money and taxes caught up with me.

My accountant pointed out that I’ve been paying writers more than 20% of my net income. As a writer myself, I believe we deserve to be paid at least something for our work. It makes me feel good to pay contributors. But I’ve come to realize that doing so at the rate I have been is not something I, a person of modest means, can afford.

I want this business model—the one in which readers directly support writers—to be sustainable. I need this business model to be sustainable. It’s all I’ve got, now that traditional media and publishing are irreparably broken. There are virtually no jobs left in my field, and the few that remain aren’t going to an almost-60-year-old. I’ve believed that if I wanted this model to work, I had to support it, too. And so I have. A little overzealously.

Unfortunately I need to lower my rates, which were never even close to what writers deserve anyway. Of course, lowering my already fairly low rates isn’t going to make or break anyone, just as my rates as they existed never would have, either. Paying contributors $50 here, $100 there, $200 for some exceptions, is more of a symbolic gesture than anything.

***

I’ve already had conversations with a number of contributors about this, explaining that I’ve left myself in a precarious position financially. Just about all of them have been understanding and gracious, letting me know they were still interested in writing for me. (Some even offered to write for free. In fact, many writers, when I ask for their Venmo, PayPal, or Zelle details so that I can pay them, tell me that they wrote their pieces not even knowing there was a payment involved.)

So far there’s been just one exception, a writer who took the news personally, despite my explaining that I had to cut my rates across the board, with everyone. This person had an almost comically explosive reaction, writing me a kiss-off email.

I pride myself on being generous with writers. I always have been. With my two NYC anthologies, I didn’t pay myself anything until years after the books were out, when I finally earned out my small advances (I’d distributed the advances among my contributors)—and not because I didn’t need the money. I wore myself out editing those books while working full-time at other gigs—ghostwriting, teaching, editing other publications—making myself sick in the process, with two successive cases of shingles.

I’m generous with writers in other ways, too—often promoting authors’ books in both my magazines; giving them opportunities to publish personal essays, many of which have led to book deals. In the past few weeks alone I’ve crossed paths with four authors who told me that my choosing, editing, and publishing their early essays led directly to their book deals. I feel really good about that.

I want to keep being generous to writers. But it turns out I have a penchant for being generous to the point of hurting myself. That’s not sustainable. I need to be sure that while taking care of contributors, I’m also taking care of myself—me, a person who’s been living on fumes for most of my career; who has very little savings or retirement funds; who does not have family money; and whose husband went through bankruptcy not long ago.

So, I’ll keep having conversations with writers and hoping some will keep working with me despite lowered rates. I’ll tighten my belt elsewhere in my life, and get creative—go back to leading workshops, for instance. I’ll do what I have to, and I’ll be okay.

I’ll add “subscribe” buttons to this newsletter, which I hadn’t before. And I’ll hope readers keep signing up for paid subscriptions to Oldster and Memoir Land—where I keep my prices low, and where I can be counted on to work hard, posting consistently, always presenting work I know is good.