Lorri Cardwell-Casey's blog

Are you rich? How much money do you make?

January 22nd, 2010

These are always the first questions I get asked when I speak in classrooms. Kids–and adults, too, I think–have this impression that all writers are super-rich. You know, with first names like “J.K.” or “Stephenie.” But no, I’ve been writing for 20 years and so far, I don’t ride in a limo to Walmart, nor need a very large safety-deposit box for all my jewels.

Am I rich? Nope. How much money do I make? Never enough. This is the point in my talk where I usually select a particular article or story and show the kids the published version and tell them how much money I made for that one. If it’s a class of second-graders and I say I made $75.00, they gasp and go, “Woah!” Because everyone knows $75.00 is a small fortune when you’re a small second-grader. You could buy a whole lot of candy with $75.00.

Let’s say it’s a class of fifth-graders. I might show them my very first article acceptance letter, back in 1989, from Highlights for Children. I made a big $80.00 for all rights for my 825-word article about why we use a seven-day week. I suggest the fifth-graders look at their parents’ last receipt from the grocery store. That $80.00 probably won’t cover the bill. (The good news about this article:  it was my very first submission ever and it sold on the first try, to the largest-circulation children’s magazine. The bad news:  so far, they’ve never published it.)

This is a strange business. I get paid by the word. My husband only wishes that included the oral amount of words I can produce in a day. Magazines and e-zines might pay nothing, no cents per word. I’ve chosen to never submit to those magazines and e-zines, because I believe writing is “work” and that for work, one should be paid. A smaller magazine might only pay five cents per word or ten cents per word. Many mid-size mags might pay twenty-five cents a word. A larger magazine might pay a dollar per word, even $1.50 per word.

The trick:  you must still create something that works best for only their publication, meaning you must read and study a lot of back issues and recent issues, learning the styles and the topics appropriate for their audience. Magazines have very specific guidelines for their needs. A magazine for preschoolers might only publish 100-word articles. They might only publish stories less than 300-words. If they pay only 17-cents per word, you do the math. A lot of work for not so much money…

So why am I still doing this? Some days, I am not so sure why. In the old days, an editor might phone if they’re accepting something I’ve submitted. The first time that ever happened, it was the former Editor-in-Chief of ParentLife, Ellen Oldacre. I remember her giving me the good news, but I became frozen, my mouth saying things my brain didn’t particularly approve. After I hung up, I realized that I thought I’d used the word “fantastic” at least seven times.

When I speak at writing conferences/workshops, sometimes I share the momentously black two days when I received TEN rejections in the mailbox. But then I have to hold back myself from a little jig of joy when I tell them about my miracle. In the next two days’ mail, I received ten ACCEPTANCES!

When I receive a copy or copies of the issue with my published work, those kinds of days make me keep going. Once, back when I served on the Advisory Counsel for ParentLife and Living with Teenagers, they flew me to Nashville for a meeting, where I loved getting to see the offices where all the editors I worked with worked. The Managing Editor at that time, Michelle Hicks, showed me the giant charts of squares on her office wall, where they literally wrote in what would appear on that page for that issue. She pointed and pointed, showing me my name (and probably a few of the four pen names they requested I come up with) on the different squares. Joy! Pure joy! I felt important. Me, the mom who worked at home, sometimes in my jammies, sometimes in between breaking up squabbles between my kids, sometimes in between loads of laundry. Me. The wonder.

And then Michelle said, “Wait right here! I’ll be right back!” A few minutes later, she came back in and said, “Hold out your hands.” I did. She placed a thick, heavy stack of glossy papers on my palms. “The next issue!” she said. “Hot–”

“…off the press!” I finished. I got it. The pages felt so warm. My heart felt so warm. I actually held the uncut, unbound pages. For me, it was magical. Something I wrote in my home office came here, to this giant building, where someone turned it into this.

I probably made $125 for the article I saw on that warm page that day. But for me, it felt like a million dollars. And that’s why I keep writing, even when I’m not rich and I don’t make that much money.

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