When, in 1979, I finally quit my regular job to write full-time, everyone wanted to know how much more I'd produce in a year. I told them I didn't think I'd produce any more than I had been. "Why not?" they asked. "How could you not write more with an extra forty hours every week?" I explained that I expected to do other things with the extra time, such as actually be able to sit down and read every now and again, talk to people occasionally, and recover something of a social life. It turned out I was right.
Many of the people at science-fiction conventions would like to be writers (sometimes I get the feeling this is true of every other person in the country). The panels on writing topics always generate lots of questions from the audience on personal working habits and methods, as if there were some kind of "insiders' secret" to be divulged. There isn't, of course. My advice is usually to "burn your TV" (I haven't owned one for years), "live within walking distance of a twenty-four-hour restaurant, and after that, do whatever works best for you." It does help to have something worthwhile to say and know how to say it, but amazingly few of the questioners seem very concerned about such irrelevancies. I suspect that a lot of people are in love with the thought of writing, not with writing.
As I settled into the U.S., I met people from all sides of the publishing businesseditors, agents, writers who were professionals before I was born. When I started mentioning that I was contemplating going full-time, one comment I heard time and time again was that the biggest mistake made by new writers was that after selling one bookfrequently without even waiting to see any reactions or sales figuresthey'd be off yelling, "I've made it! I've made it!" quitting their jobs, getting new cars, and checking the real-estate prices in Hawaii. Almost invariably it didn't work out, and within six months they'd be knocking on the door of their old company, desperate to get back in out of the rain. And more often than not, worse than the financial setback, they had destroyed themselves psychologically.
That was some of the best advice I ever had.
So, I set three conditions that I said would have to be satisfied before I'd consider going full-time. One: I'd have five published booksnot signed contracts or manuscripts delivered, but five titles out on shelves in bookstores, and out there long enough for the sales to be evident. Two: Each would have to have done better than the one before. In general, the sales of a book peak in the month or two following its release, and then drop off. What this condition said was that each peak should be higher than the last, indicating a satisfied, growing readership. Three: Enough cash in the bank to last one yeareven if all income were to dry up, but expenses continued unabatedand no debts or credit.
People can delude themselves in strange ways when defending their fantasies. I've often heard it assumed that once the earnings from part-time writing equal one's regular salary, then quitting the job won't make any difference. Wrong. Let's say, to take a round number, that somebody's salary is thirty thousand dollars per year. When their part-time writing incomes equals that, their total income is sixty thousand dollarssimple when you think about it, but so few do. When they quit, they'd better be ready for a fifty percent cut.
The third condition was to cushion against life's "unexpecteds." Not unexpectedly, there were plenty of those, not the least of which was acquiring a third wife and another three children. Since the survival plan was resilient enough for us to muddle through without my having to abandon writing, I feel I can recommend it.
The message, I suppose, is to make sure that your umbrella isn't designed for sunny days.