Is it worth it if we don’t get paid or praised?

Reflections on interview with Darius De La Cruz

Photo by Emilio Takas on Unsplash

In last week’s interview, Darius captured many of the whys of creative work. To quote him:

• “On really productive days, the colors look brighter, and the air smells sweeter and shit.”

• “I was thinking about another part of acting I find really compelling, which is how to cultivate the real, underlying honesty of right now.”

• “Some [of my most fulfilling experiences] have come from working at home and staring at a wall. That perseverance that’s required, and then all of a sudden seeing the poetry in it.”

• “There are times that working on a role for an audition can be rewarding in and of itself . . . even if I didn’t get a part, maybe I learned something from it . . . . It’s interesting to feel that progress and get something out of it, but then be like, I sure do need a paycheck at some point though.”

All of these lines stayed with me, but especially the last: I sure do need a paycheck at some point though. It struck me as a clandestine why, one many of us don’t like to think or talk about when we make things: getting paid.

We often hear that creative work doesn’t pay, or it doesn’t pay well. That’s not entirely true. It does pay some people very well sometimes. And it pays others a fine amount for a long time. But that can’t be why we do it, people say, because pay for creative work is unpredictable. We can’t count on it.

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Getting paid is part of a bigger question: At what point do we need external recognition for our creative work to keep going? If we aren’t getting it, is that a sign of something that we should take seriously?

A focus on external recognition can have noble intent. As Darius put it, “I want to engage others. I want to be in service, you know.” I do too; I think many of us do. We care about helping and engaging. We care about our audience.

The problem is this: How can we tell if we are engaging others or are being in service? Pay, praise, laughter, applause, sales, awards. In a conversation with David just now, he listed some of these ways, and all of a sudden, I started staring out the window, like I’d entered into some kind of coma.

I wondered at myself for a few minutes, and then it came to me. I’ve been down this road before. I lived for external recognition for the better part of my 40 years.

My momentary coma was telling me, This is not the place to put your attention. If I did—if praise or pay were the measures—I wouldn’t be writing this now. I wouldn’t write at all. But when I look back on a given week, my time spent writing is the time I feel good about inside. That, and the time with people I love. Over and over again, writing helps me shift. It helps me get from one place to a better one.

Maybe being of service is a noble goal and a bad place to put my attention. I do better when I put my attention on the times alone in my house. On the words on the page. On the repetition.

Engaging and serving others, if it happens, then becomes a magical side dish.