Writing A Book Is Like Going To Grad School
Two goals that come wrapped in poverty, personal fulfillment, and professional gain.
Once, years ago, a few years after I published my first book, a young man I was acquainted with through social media sent me a friendly message. That book was called The Oyster War, and in the course of asking what I was up to, he said—and I will never forget this—“are you still living off that Oyster War money?”
That Oyster War money. This was hilarious to me. Writing the book had cost me a significant amount, not just personally and logistically, but financially. The reporting took a few years, during which I had to pay for travel expenses and transportation. I had to clothe and house and feed myself. Sometimes other people housed, fed, and transported me. Some friends of mine lent me their 1970s German camper van, which I used while investigating oyster farms and seal haul-outs on the misty California coast. They cooked me eggy breakfasts and even lent me a windbreaker or two. Another California-based friend let me crash on his couch.
At that point, despite being armed with a book contract from a well-respected small publisher, I had only received a payment of $2,500 to write the book. That was after working on it for a few years already—enough to knock a decent nonfiction book proposal into shape. That $2,500 was half of my book advance, minus agent’s fees. A few months before the book was published, I received the other $2,500, which helped defray the costs of my $6,000 multi-state book tour, which was organized by my publisher but paid for entirely by me. Sometimes generous bookstore owners provided bottles of wine and paper cups.
