A Dream Is Not a Hobby

A dream is not a hobby.

The difference between dreams and reality

Some of you are already nodding your heads; others are, perhaps, confused. Let me explain. Writers, painters, sculptors, photographers, those of us who try the arts hoping to eke out some acclaim and a living, do so because we love it, to be sure. I write books and stories, for instance, because I get genuine enjoyment whenever someone reads and enjoys my stories. I probably get more satisfaction than they do. However, that doesn’t mean I don’t care about financial results.

I routinely get told, by well-intentioned people, that I should be content with “writing for myself” or that I shouldn’t care about financial rewards.

“Why are you writing?” they ask, “Is it for money or because you enjoy writing?”

The answer is, “Yes.”

“Do you want to be good, or do you want to be famous?”

Again, “Yes.”

I, in fact, am confused by the question. It’s like asking, “Do you want to have kids or do you want to see them grow up?” Um, why do you think those are two different things? The theory seems to be we artists should be content with being able to create – that the work itself is enough, if we have people who recognize and appreciate our efforts. But that diminishes our dreams of being an artist to a hobby.

I write for two reasons. One, I love to write. Two, I dream of being able to quit my day job so I can write more. Why should I be content with the first reason? Would you, well-meaning friend, be okay with consulting for free, as long as clients tell you that you’ve done an admirable job? And you, dear doctor friend, do you treat patients as a sideline (hobby) while working full-time at another gig that pays the bills? Of course you don’t, and why should you?

See, here’s the secret that your artist friend isn’t telling you: they probably work as hard at their art as you work at your job. Plus, most likely have a “real” job to go along with it. My work days, if you count the days I’m at my career, or writing, or promoting, or editing, or any of other related tasks, are 7 days a week, 52 weeks per year. I “work” probably 10-12 hours per day. The fact that the writer/photographer work is fun doesn’t lessen how hard I work at it.

If you are not an artist, but you have a friend who is, promise me something. Promise that you will never tell him or her that they should be happy just doing the work. And, if you believe that to be true, keep going to work and give them your salary. See if that feels satisfying. The work is its own reward, after all. Right? Your artist friend has a dream to be validated, which in modern society takes two forms: First, people view the work, like it, and tell others they do. Second, there is some tangible, objective measure of its worth.

Now I’m not trying to reduce everything to money. Heck, my own research indicates that the bestselling books aren’t even the ones that are critically acclaimed. However, the way I know that my short stories are good is if people are willing to give something up to read them. A painter knows people appreciate her painting because they pay for it. If they were all free, would they be important? Who knows?

I give away books to people I like. Those who care, read them. But here’s a secret – the more they like me, the more they like the book. So, am I good? Not unless objective people think I am.

I don’t have a dream to be a writer. I have a dream to be paid because people like to read my work. Your artist friend doesn’t have a dream to do a gallery showing, she has a dream to have people come to the gallery, love her art, and buy some of it. Then, perhaps, she can spend the remainder of her life doing what she likes for money.

Because, at the end of the day, isn’t that the dream we all have in common?

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18 thoughts on “A Dream Is Not a Hobby

  1. This is true and so bloody frustrating that people expect as an ”artist”, that you must eat locusts and /or cut off your frigging ear!

    Or maybe one is not regarded as a ”proper writer” unless you hunt big game and later kill yourself or don’t hunt big game but still kill yourself.
    I don’t hunt or live near a river, like Hemingway or Woolf, so that counts me out.

    I suppose I could take drugs like Stephen King, or go a bit doolally, like poor old Sir Terry.
    Of course, it might be fairly easy to become a criminal like Archer.

    Whatever, it seems that writing and normality are unlikely bedfellows. 😉

    1. I find that people are almost disappointed to find out I’m “normal” (or near normal). They even get offended that I get discouraged about sales.

      I think you’re right; having some major vice or dysfunction makes us interesting enough to become successful. Maybe I should adopt a persona along with a pen name. “James Huguley has been a sheriff, an alcoholic, and has spent the last ten years in and out of mental institutions. This is his first novel since his sex change.”

      That ought to bring them in.

      1. Lol…it might work. I run two blogs, one as Ark (my Altered Ego) and the other as my supposed normal side.

        Perhaps a blog: Tales of a cross dresser might just do it…they do say, sex sells.

        I’ll hang around ( follow) , Bill, you sound like a bloke with my sense of humour.

        But right now..I’m off to watch a movie.
        Catch you later…

  2. I hope you don’t think I’m one of those well intentioned people that like to butter up your ego because I’m in love with you. Self belief is a biggie if you want to make a living at what you do too, I know that one all too well.

    1. No, I can tell that you are sincere. I think I was more talking about the fact that when people like you, they tend to be easier to please. I don’t think you’d ever pretend, because that would only be helping me to be self-deceptive.

  3. The key I think is in striking up a happy dynamic between loving what you do and getting the world to love what you do too, otherwise, as you so rightly say, there is little point to it, full stop.

    1. I don’t think I could ever love producing art that no one liked. I’m extroverted enough that the interaction is much of what I like. Without that, it’s boring. I can keep my stories in my head, like I did when I was a kid.

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