Sorry, You Can't Monetize That
on staying curious & creative (when you need to also get paid)
What this is really about is not selling ourselves out: not conforming so completely to what the world expects of us that we lose our strange, inventive twinkle—and with it our God-given sense of possibility, and of freedom.
Pssss…The Second Cup has just turned 2! And by golly, there are more than 500 of you here now. Thank you is not enough. I am still stunned by this fact.
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I don’t claim to know what God was thinking when he created the universe, but I have a hunch it wasn’t, “If I can just get the New York Times to review this, I just know it will launch my career.”
He probably didn’t step back from a particularly masterful show of his craftsmanship—think, trees that grow coffee beans—and say, “How lovely! I should monetize this.”
No. I imagine the heavens and the earth (and all the other celestial wonders I know nothing about) were a joyful outpouring of the inner life that was already happening inside of God. He had to have done it from a place of total freedom; only someone completely unconcerned with what the critics would think would be able to bring forth the ostrich, the blobfish, the screaming hairy armadillo.
I like to think of God as a heavenly Jackson Pollock here: exuberant, triumphant, unencumbered. Splashing ingenuity everywhere. Probably enjoying himself immensely.
Meanwhile, here I am—a little-c creator made in the image of this big-C Creator—sitting in the lobby of an auto-body shop, gleaning some spotty wi-fi from my hotspot so I can hit a deadline, trying to concentrate while the Today Show blares on about Netflix, resilience, and 5-minute arm workouts.
Maybe I’m just feeling extra introspective today because The Second Cup has just turned 2 years old here on Substack, and because September is always the month where my body and brain still think they should be standing in front of a classroom, reading books aloud to wiggly kids and misplacing my coffee cup and sneaking to the teacher’s room during my bathroom break because I heard rumors of donuts.
I’ll never forget the feeling I had the first morning I started calling myself ‘Writer’ rather than ‘Teacher.’ Alone at home, I thought of how all my former colleagues were at school right then, probably running morning meetings and navigating meltdowns. Meanwhile, I was sitting in my attic office with a hot, creamy coffee, not even wearing a bra. There was grief, yes (I still feel that pull, even now), but there was also this sense of possibility, this feeling that I was getting away with something delicious. The world was my oyster! My future was a blank page! Opportunity was ripe for the picking! I felt like the poster child for every motivational cliche you’ve ever heard.
(God) had to have done it from a place of total freedom; only someone completely unconcerned with what the critics would think would be able to bring forth the ostrich, the blobfish, the screaming hairy armadillo.
Quickly, sadly, I found myself caught in the rub that has blighted the creative artist for generations—probably since Adam got kicked out of the Garden, actually, when he had to start working by the sweat of his brow and the snake began to whisper cruelties in his ear, like, “You named that bird a blue-footed booby? Are you freakin’ serious, dude?”
I wanted to create irrational-joyous-bouyant-wondrous-diverse work.
I also wanted to create work that would offer some sort of return: one that would make a career with no health insurance feel like a somewhat viable option. The reality of writing is that it sometimes has to fit into other people's formulas to be marketable.
And the reality of writing to fit into someone else’s formula is that—unless we relentlessly protect our curious little creative spark in constant and intentional ways—it will get snuffed. We’ll lose that sense of freedom that once made life so expansive and joyous. And then we’ll die a little inside.
This isn’t just about writing, of course. Maybe it’s not even just about creativity. What it’s really about is not selling ourselves out: not conforming so completely to what the world expects of us that we lose our strange, inventive twinkle—and with it our God-given sense of possibility, and of freedom.
Yes, yes, we play the game. We all must, to some extent. We have to eat and pay for hospital bills and keep up with shoeing our children’s ever-growing feet. But what I’m saying is this: tuck away a piece of yourself that is allowed to emulate the big-C Creator—all Pollock-esque and wild and delighted and untamed. Make the money and meet the deadlines, of course, but then sneak away and sketch wild geese and press wildflowers and write a song, too. Do things that are hopelessly un-compensateable.
I am convinced this is how we revolt against becoming hard and bored and waiting to die. It is how we stay free in a world that demands practicality. In the words of Charley Crockett, “I’ll take their money, but these fools don’t own me.”1
[oh and p.s. JUST TO BE CLEAR HERE: I don’t consider a single person/organization I’ve ever done any work for to be a fool. I love them dearly and thank them profusely for trusting me. It’s an honor.
It’s just that I love a good stick-it-to-the-establishment song—don’t you?]
Here’s a little creative pep talk from my Instagram this morning. If we’re not connected there, let’s be!
Watch this. Fall in love with Charley Crockett. Thank me later.
Thank you for reminding us to not to lose our "strange, inventive twinkles," Dee! Another well-written column.
Loved this, Deidre. And of course, very relatable—especially with the teacher turned full-time writer part. I miss the classroom dearly, but I answer this writer’s call with all of me.