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The Busking Writer
By Michael
Harling
I feel fortunate to live in a town where busking is a viable employment option.
Busking, for those of you who live outside the UK, means street performing, and
in order to make it sufficiently lucrative, the location has to be amiable,
lively, and attractive enough to draw a continual stream of people. My town is
all of these.
This is very pleasant indeed, as it means on any given Saturday, as my wife and
I walk to the market, we pass at least two or three people playing the guitar,
squeezing their accordion or performing as a one-man-band. If I judge they're
not making a hash of it, I'll put a pound in their tip jar; struggling artists--
be they singers, cello players or writers-- all need support. Especially
writers, because the buskers have it so much better.
Think about it, unlike writers, these artists receive immediate feedback and
remuneration. If they set up and start playing on a busy street corner and
suddenly everyone begins detouring around the block, they can be fairly certain
their delivery needs a bit of polish. And they get this valuable information for
free. Writers, on the other hand, have to stuff submissions into envelopes, buy
postage by the pound, and wait weeks before the stock rejection slips start
filtering back in.
For writer's, making money is such a rarity that a single sale is cause for
celebration. Think back to the victory dance you did when you sold your first
article (come on, you know you did) and imagine a street performer doing that
every time someone dropped a coin in his hat. He'd be exhausted, at least for
the first hour until people stopped coming around. And despite the fact that the
money merely trickles in, at the end of their shift, I'd wager the buskers are
bringing home more than your average wordsmith. How much did your last article
sell for?
In truth, all of this matters very little because, like a writer, the busker is
only doing what he would do anyway, even if no one was watching, enjoying or
paying, which is really the reason I am so jealous of them; they get paid to
practice.
Wouldn't it be grand if we, as writers, could set up a card table on a street
corner and work through that stubborn scene in chapter seven while our
over-sized coffee mug-- emptied of pencils, paperclips, and rubber bands-- sat
on the pavement in front of us waiting for passersby to throw money into it?
Informative signs such as "Writer at work," "Will make stuff up for money," or
"Pre-Publication sale of my forthcoming novel available here today," may help
your bottom line and might keep the local authorities from carting you off for a
chat with some nice people in white coats.
If we all did it, however, it wouldn't look so odd, and people might start to
accept us. Imagine making writers more visible in the community; and I mean real
writers, not Victoria Beckham, William Shatner or Madonna, but people like you
and me. We need to get out into the world, to let them see us as we really are
(though you might want to change that shirt and leave the bunny slippers at
home). People should have the opportunity to appreciate how much we struggle and
agonize over the words they so casually read and toss aside. They should witness
our agony and our passion. And pay us for it. There. On the spot.
The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced this is a monumental idea.
This needs to happen; together we need to stand up (or, sit down, as the case
may be) and let ourselves be seen, just like your neighborhood busker. This
weekend, we should all grab our card tables and folding chairs and set them up
in the town square. Then we can sit there all day with our spiral pads or
laptops doing what we would have done all day anyway but with the benefit of
fresh air, a bit of exposure and some hard cash.
I would join you but I'm, ah, busy this weekend; the gerbil cage needs cleaning,
you understand. Don't let that stop you, however. Just remember, when I
mentioned that bit about the local authorities and the men with the white coats,
I said it "might" keep them from carting you off; I'm making no guarantees and
will not be held liable.
Let me know how you get on.
Michael Harling has performed both as a singer and stand-up
comic but has yet to appear before a live audience as a writer. He has likewise
never been a busker. Currently he is an aspiring novelist and freelance humorist
whose work has appeared in a variety of newspapers and magazines, including The
National Lampoon, Writer's Digest, and the Journal of Forensic Identification.
Read more of his writing on
www.lindenwald.com.
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