The M-word: in which I indulge in angst, whining, and more angst

So, for some reason, some o’y'all seem to like my writing. Or what I have to say. Or something about this blogging thing I do, anyway. (Don’t ask me why, I dunno either; I’m still trying to figure it out.)

And, this blog, for some reason, is getting a teeny, tiny bit Out There. Which is, y’know, cool.

For example: Didja know an article from here was published in a real print rag? So, it wasn’t mine, it was a guest post. Not that I’m bitter or anything. (OK, maybe a little bitter, although I love the lucky author to death and don’t begrudge her the byline at all.) (OK, maybe a little begrudge.) (That they put in my old web address after I asked them three times to use the new one? That I might be bitter about.)

And I’ve been contacted for an interview so someone else can get paid to write a book.

And got a very weird offer I’m not sure what to do with yet, that might actually give me money — if I just agree to sell my soul, my dignity, and my values. (It is, alas, totally legal.)

Completely unrelated (except in my crazy brain), over in the Twitterverse there’s a convo (Twits don’t have conversations, that’s too many characters) on #blogmoney going on, and over in another part of the intarwebz I’m eyeing ad rings with simultaneous lust and revulsion.

And an already-published friend is writing her third novel, and damn it’s good.

And Kelly Diels is prostituting her cleavage for money, and I’m convinced she’s going to start succeeding any damn day now. (With those assets, how could she not?) (I meant her writing.)

And, y’know, all of that has me angsting just a HUGE FUCKING TON little, over what I do, and what to do next, and, uh, can I get paid for this too? Because that would be nice.

Because while capitalism sucks non-consensual donkey dong, having none in a capitalistic state sucks syphilitic donkey dong. (I totally stole that line.)

Of course, I don’t have none.

I have lots, comparatively. (And lots of debt, but who’s counting?) (Other than our creditors.)

Which the white cis heterosexual male I live with earns while I sit on my arse and Tweet and write and angst and neglect, mostly benignly, our Boychick.

He also gets Social Security credits. I do not.

(To those following along at home in less sadistic countries, Social Security works like this: when you earn money, the federal government decides that you are a worthwhile human being, deserving in your old age of support and food and a roof and occasionally even some heat if the gas prices aren’t too high. The more money you earn over your life, thereby allowing you to possibly put away a little for retirement and the less, consequently, you need to rely on outside assistance, the more they decide you’re worth. If you don’t earn enough money, or don’t earn money often enough, perhaps because you’re busy taking care of said old people and sharing your roof and your food and your heat with them, or new people, ditto, or are unable to work for pay but unable to prove you can’t work, or maybe both (hi!), then your Social is Screwed rather than Secured, and the government decides you are worth bubkis and you get exactly that.

Unless you marry money, or a man who can earn it. Which is a whole ‘nother can of botulistic cow feces.)

Where was I? Oh right, angst and greed.

Ooo, greed. The sin that conservative Christians and liberal social justice activists have in common. Supposedly, anyway.

The thing is, I’d kinda like to get paid for my writing. Sometime. Eventually. A bit, at least.

Partly, it’s because while I hate capitalism, I kinda like money, and the things, like food and cars that don’t burn oil, that money can get one in a capitalistic system. Partly, it’s because money is the scorekeeper in our society, and I’m broken enough to want to beg for some of that recognition. Partly, it’s because of aforementioned debt, and the desire to be rid of its tarry grip. Partly, it’s because I’m a bit squicked out by the work women do — and this woman in particular does — once again being unpaid, unacknowledged, unofficial, and unsupported by society at large. Even if said society is FUBARed.

Partly, it’s because a friend just bought a house, and I am not above envy. Green looks good on me.

Green would look good in my wallet, too.

But, how to actually do something about that? I can’t help but feel that ads are tacky capitalistic and kyriarchal, I don’t do reviews, sponsored or otherwise, and submitting to print publications takes a fuckload of spoons and practice and rejection slips. Also contacts and networking and skills and know-how and determination and lots of other things I lack in abundance. (I lack them, but I lack them a lot. Surely that counts for something?)

This is what I think about at 2am, while my lover and my child sleep, after I come home from yet another unrewarding and emotionally stressful (don’t ask) Pathology class so I can maybe one day make a bit of money performing personal yet professional services for rich folk who can afford it and don’t need it near as bad as those who can’t.

Here’s a start: I’ve made an official Raising My Boychick Wish List at the evil Amazon (see? compromising values for compensation), which anyone who cares to can click through to order me whatever I put on there.

I haven’t put anything on it.

This sums me up.