A dad comes to see me: “Do you want to join our group? We’re missing one person to form our team.” I’m at a holiday camp, the children are being looked after this afternoon and the adults, for their part, will be taking part in a friendly volleyball tournament, without their offspring in tow. After vaguely hesitating: “No,” I heard myself reply. “I brought myself some work.”
Yes. I brought my computer to the summer camp. The week before, I had received from my publisher the corrections of my collection of short stories which is to be published this fall and I have to revise them.
I went up to the second floor of the main building of the summer camp: I knew there was a quiet place with a power outlet and a great view of the enormous playground that is the camp. I set up my computer on a beautiful old wooden table, I put my sunglasses here and my cup of coffee here: click! I take a picture. In the background, through two large open windows, mountains, a shimmering lake, palapas, a beach. The volleyball court is right next door: I can hear the adults having fun like children. A few moments to themselves, they become “adulescents” again.
As a thumbnail to my photo, on Instagram and Facebook, I added this: “My office for the afternoon, followed by the starry-eyed emoji: “super excited”. This is where I will review the corrections sent by my editor in preparation for the publication of my first book!”
I press “publish”, close my cell phone and open my computer.
The first story in this collection was written four years ago. This November, I will finally have the chance to hold my book. And a year later, I will receive my first royalty check, about 10% of the sale price, which will amount to anywhere from $500, if sales are meager, to $7,500, if by some miracle my book becomes a blockbuster of Quebec literature.
So five years to get the first cent — if you’re lucky.
While I was editing, I sometimes looked at my cell phone, to see how many reactions my post had gotten, or to take a look at the news. I came across an article that discussed the phenomenon of hyperconnection during the holidays.
I sighed.
Then I took a screenshot of the story and sent it to my girlfriend, along with these words: “But I don’t do work. Work involves some form of compensation, and writers don’t get any during the creation process, the editing process, or even anything for up to a year after publication—if they get published. So I don’t “work” on vacation.”
I’m not complaining. Far from it. I even consider my upcoming first publication to be one of my greatest personal achievements. But here’s the thing: for the vast majority of authors, literature is not a job, because it does not provide the essential compensation that would allow them to make a living from it.
Two and a half hours later, I close my computer. I go back down to the huge playing field, satisfied. I have to admit that I would still write, even though there is not a penny waiting for me at the end of this very long process. I come across the dad who had invited me to join his volleyball team and I call out to him: “And then, the tournament?”
— Our team lost, unfortunately…
– Oh no !
— But in the final, another team of adults beat the teenagers!
Small consolation; honor was saved. And I too can console myself, because until proven otherwise, I have not really “worked”.
Note: The percentages and sales figures mentioned in this text are based on industry averages.