You know the dream. Quit the day job. Write full-time. Work from a cozy café, your creativity is the only boss you answer to. The sun dapples your laptop as you sip a latte, financially sustained by the endless, flowing stream of your own brilliance.
Let me introduce you to the reality (as of now): my finances and I are in the most dramatic, confusing, low-commitment situationship of all time.
My royalty check isn’t a partner. It’s a fuck-buddy that sometimes texts. A flirtatious character who sweeps into town for a passionate, decadent weekend, buys a few rounds of drinks (read: pays the electric bill), whispers sweet nothings about “future potential,” and then vanishes for months without a word.
The toxic cycle of our relationship
The Slow Burn (Months 1-3): Radio silence. I’m left staring at my inbox, refreshing the publisher portal like it’s a dating app. Did I imagine our last connection? Was it all a dream? I start to doubt everything. My work. My worth. My life choices. I survive on the meager offerings of Side Hustle (a clingy, needy presence) and a deep, abiding faith in screw bottle wine.
The Grand Gesture (Month 4): OUT OF THE BLUE. A notification! An email! It’s… it’s here! And it’s… significant. Not “retire to a villa” significant, but “oh my god, I can pay for a night out AND maybe for my girlfriend’s too” significant. Validation. I am a Capital-A Author. I buy a nice cup of hot chocolate from Tim Horton’s to celebrate.
The Disappearing Act (The Very Next Day): The dopamine fades. The money, after its glorious debut, is swiftly allocated to the backlog of “past due” friendships I’ve been neglecting. The glow is gone. The silence returns. The cycle resets. I’m left with a receipt, a slightly healthier bank balance, and the haunting question: When will you love me again?
Living the Dream™
This is the “creative freedom” they talk about. It’s freedom, alright. Freedom from predictability. From financial security. From the ability to answer “So, how’s the writing going?” with anything other than a manic laugh and a thousand-yard stare.
I am living the dream. It’s just that the dream has the budgeting skills of a fantasy novelist and the emotional consistency of a soap opera villain.
I can’t make plans. I can’t rely on it. Yet I am pathologically loyal. I’ve turned down stable, sensible relationships with 401(k)s and dental plans for this flighty, thrilling, utterly unreliable source of affection. My friends with “real jobs” talk about salaries and promotions. I talk about “foreign rights sales” and “surprise backlist spikes” like I’m analyzing the cryptic messages of a distant crush.
Why I won’t go to rehab
Because when it’s good? It’s magic. That notification isn’t just money. It’s a signal flare from a stranger. It means someone, somewhere, connected with a sentence I cobbled together in my pajamas. That check is a physical manifestation of a reader’s sigh, a stayed-up-late night, a dog-eared page. It’s applause translated into a currency we, unfortunately, do live by.
It’s the most validating, terrifying, and profoundly weird tip jar in the world.
So I’ll stay in this situationship. I’ll complain about it bitterly over cheap wine, and I’ll celebrate its return with slightly less-cheap wine. I’ll refresh the portal. I’ll stress. I’ll write another book, another article, another something — hoping to lure the ghost back for another visit.
It’s not a career. It’s a romantic comedy where I play both the hopeful protagonist and the emotionally unavailable love interest. And the contract is for life.
— Montse
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