Usually I give it up for free. Now I feel used and I haven’t even held the check in my hand, just a contract promising me $250. (I hear that’s good money for what I just did.)
Yeah, that’s right. I sold a piece of myself…A piece of writing.
I thought it would feel better, but now I’m preoccupied with the shame of it: It wasn’t that good. People are probably judging me right now! Also I’m stuck in a kind of literary psychosis wondering what it means that Narrative magazine published my istory as part of Narrative Backstage, which is like pay-per-view. Was the piece not quite good enough for the free online version? (What kind of a question is that?)
Aw, hell. What am I doing? I should be grateful anyone’s willing to pay money for my writing. And I AM. Really.
It’s just that once money is exchanged for something…I don’t know…that something feels sorta cheapened. I don’t understand this feeling, but I’m making a real effort to focus on the good parts. Namely that my face appears in a line up next to other REAL writers in a literary magazine that I LOVE.
So thank you, universe (and Narrative people). I hope you enjoy the tiny peek at my private stuff.