Chasing Money.
And why I stopped.
“Only a fool writes for any other reason than money.” E.L. Mencken
I used to chase money.
I’d chase it in my sleep if I could.
Most mornings, I’d wake up wondering how I could make more.
Then I realized it wasn’t actually the money I craved.
It was the chase.
As many of you here know, there are countless ways to chase money if you’re a writer. I’ve tried most of them, everything from journalism, to advertising, to novels and plays. It’s been going on over forty years now.
How I started becoming money crazy
I began as a playwright back in university. I took my plays to the leading underground theatre. They made me protegé to the writer-in-residence, researching a new play about the Spanish Civil War. They even arranged a grant for me being a protegé.
No slinging burgers part time for me.
I was a protegé.
It’s still right there on my resume.
Writing to time
You could say that’s when the chase began for me. If I could make money claiming I was a playwright — which was debatable — imagine all the other ways I could clean up, and maybe even win a Pulitzer in the process.
Upon graduation, a wise old professor said to me, “Robert, if you can write to time, you’ll never be broke.”
So I checked the university job board, and there it was: “Copywriter needed. Apply at CKNX Radio, Wingham. Writing to time is essential.”
So I applied, did my written test, and was hired on the spot. For the next three months, I wrote eighteen commercials a day, then spent my evenings in the studio writing even crazier commercials.
That earned me my own clients.
I guess you could say it started with cattle
One client wanted me to do something special for their cattle caller. According to him, having one was pretty darned important to farmers. So I wrote “Nothing makes your cattle sit up and take notice like the Evan’s Cattle Caller,” with some banjo music playing behind.
The cattle callers sold like hotcakes (so did banjos, I think).
Then there were cadavers…
Another client sold anatomical cadavers made out of a specialized flexible plastic. They were so exact in their arterial and muscular composition, medical schools used them for dissection.
Everything else was exact, too, including, well, you know, everything.
When I asked the client if that meant “everything,” he said, “You could marry these damn things.”
And, well, fingers
One day, an advertising agency in Toronto contacted me. They liked my stuff. So I went to work for them. My first assignment was selling rings for a national jewellery chain. I created commercials using fingers doing fashion shows and chorus lines. It went over big. The client doubled the agency’s billings. I got a five hundred dollar raise.
On and on, one agency after another, I chased money, convinced I was helping turn the wheels of industry in the process. I bought my parents their first microwave, answering machine and widescreen television. I bought myself new clothes, a new car, even bought the family cottage.
Fuck it, they’re paying
All of which sounds like my chasing money was paying off. Only it wasn’t. When you chase money, eventually you stop thinking creatively. You do what people want. You say, “Fuck it, they’re paying.”
At that point, you’re owned. You don’t think you’re owned, but you are. They know it, and soon you know it.
This is what an asshole client sounds like
One client used to call me at two in the morning. He didn’t care. He was on west coast time. When I finally snapped and told him to fuck off, he started laughing. “Now you know what an asshole client sounds like, Robert,” he said, then hung up.
Another client called me and started screaming, “How dare you send me this invoice!” He was in his car, on the highway, going through all his bills.
Suddenly he yells, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
“What?” I said.
“They’re turning off my bloody heat!”
He hadn’t paid his gas bill in four months.
“Serves you right, you cheap prick,” I said.
For some reason, we both broke out laughing. We couldn’t stop. He finally said, “Give me your bank transit number, asshole.”
The money was in my account late that afternoon.
Sure, it’s a funny story. But I was exactly what one drunken client at an advertising function told me I was.
“Cormack,” he said, “you’re a slut.”
Anywhere you want, just not Toronto
Years later, a friend called me. She was having trouble getting her real estate business going. “Let me sell your place,” she said. I’d been in that house for fourteen years. I was sixty-three years old, divorced, forty grand in debt. “Where the hell am I going to go?” I asked her.
“Anywhere you want,” she said. “Just not Toronto.”
Then she explained that we were just entertaining offers. I didn’t have to accept any of them. So we listed and did an Open House. A couple comes through the door and offers me just over a million bucks.
Considering I bought the property back in 2003 for just under three hundred grand—and I was forty grand in debt—hell, I had to accept.
Back to the country (I guess, where I belong)
Long story short, I moved to a small town on Lake Erie. After paying my debts, commissions, and everything else — including my car breaking down on the way — I could survive.
Actually, I did better than survive.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t have to chase money.
Back to what I do best—or adequately
The day after I moved in, I began writing again. I mean, really writing. Not for anybody else. Just for me. In these past five years, I’ve written novels, plays, short stories, children’s books — even greeting cards.
To date, I’ve done well over two hundred articles and stories for medium.com alone, including eight imprints. I’m also published regularly in Rosebud Magazine, and even got included in an anthology of short stories.
My heavenly $45.50 a month (might be a senior’s discount in reverse)
When I hear people talk about what they make on Medium, Substack, etc., I’m not envious. I guess I should be. I only make about $45.50 a month.
It’s not that I hate money. I just don’t want to write for money alone. I want my creativity back, and thank God that’s happened.
Right now, my wife and I are working on a number of children’s books.
I still write for Rosebud, The Shadow, Freethinkr, Betterism, Blank Page, The Nonconformist, and many more.
I’m having fun. That hasn’t happened much in the last forty some odd years. I was too busy being what my client called a “slut.”
Fools and sluts
So, yes, Mr. Mencken, only a fool writes for any other reason than money.
I’m that fool.
If you ask me, we need more fools and less sluts.
If you’ve enjoyed my little missive, please consider subscribing. We do this for the love of writing, but it’s nice earning a few bob now and then. Supposedly, you can also tip. I’m not exactly sure how it works, but it’s an interesting idea.
Robert Cormack is a satirist, blogger and author of “You Can Lead A Horse to Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive).” You can join him every day by subscribing to robertcormack@medium.com/subscription.
