If you devote a large part of your life to making writing, art, or any other creative work that doesn’t have as its end result a clearly commercially viable product (i.e., I’m not talking artisanal pickles or ombre tights or short stories about middle-aged couples who go to a party and leave vaguely dissatisfied + maybe there’s a Holocaust reference in there) (jk about that last one, kind of), you are going to either need to figure out how to get paid for that work by somebody — the government, your audience, some kind of patron — or you’re going to have to figure out something to do with the remaining portion of your time that doesn’t make it impossible to have enough hours or mental real estate remaining to do that work. I’ve read many variations on the theme of “everyone makes it work in her own way,” but though that’s kind of true, there are still underlying themes of every artist’s super-unique story that we ignore at our peril.  

I’m a fan, personally, of art that sucks at marketing itself, that doesn’t have a cute backstory or a built-in “platform,” that is not cuddly or “adorkable” and doesn’t immediately lend itself to a hierarchy of “rewards” for “backers,” that is antisocial and prickly and deeply strange.  So the trend towards crowdsourced funding for exactly the opposite kind of art leaves me cold.  But if someone like Justin, whose blog posts defy description, wants to give people access to his work in exchange for money and he’s found a way to do so, then I’m sorry if $2 is too expensive for you but to me it seems like a really, really, really small price to pay for A GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING LITTLE SCRAP OF HOPE FOR WEIRD NEW WORK IN THIS SHITSHOW OF A MARKETPLACE. (From Emily Gould’s Shitloads of Money.)

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