Access to the arts might be good for mental health (The Guardian view on living more creatively: a daily dose of art, 9 January), but the conditions in which most artists have to produce their work does nothing to improve their own.
I’m a novelist, and I was paid £1,000 and £500 respectively for my last two books. The latter was shortlisted for an international literary award. That’s £1,500 earned in 10 years. Before turning to writing full-time, I worked in other areas: in local government, and as a teacher and academic.
Writing novels requires just as much commitment and effort, but is abysmally paid in comparison. The problem is that the publishing industry has exempted itself from all labour laws: you work for years in the hope of future income, there’s no annual leave, no sick leave and you can be dismissed – without recourse to employment tribunal – if your agent happens to think you’re not earning them enough money.
I operate in a rogue industry, and have to scrounge and lie and cheat to stay afloat. I am cut off from my former peers who still lead salaried lives, and feel closer now to my neighbours who live on benefits. I can’t afford to go to the theatre. I avoid exhibitions that are ticketed. I buy books secondhand. Reading novels might make you happy, but poverty can lie behind the richest of stories.
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