And Now We Are 45


Today I turn 45, and in lieu of the traditional god-awful birthday selfie, you get a semi-awful birthday close-up of my cat saying Good Morning.

Gods, it’s been a year. The last twelve months have seen plagues and floods, a bunch of books getting published, a couple of ambitions projects started (and, currently, shelved for a restart once my schedule clears up in June). I got married to my beloved last Halloween, got a job with Brisbane Writers Festival, and have spent a good chunk of time trying to manage the ongoing whiplash of trying to figure out the rapidly changing landscape of existing in 2022.

I rather failed to finish my PhD, but it’s getting close. Sooooo goddamned close.

Tomorrow it’ll be three years since my dad passed away. It’s also three years since my sister went through the surgery that rendered her cancer free. I was already weird about birthday celebrations, but it’s been damn confusing since 2019, and I still haven’t quite figured it out.

45, and the State of the Peter

45, and the State of the Peter

If I’m doing my math right, I turn 45 today, and this Patreon has been running for twelve months. It’s been an off-kilter, catch-as-catch-can kind of year, full of pivots and re-examination of what I can achieve, and I’m not sure that process is over yet. Life is chaotic right now, beyond the usual chaos of being two months out from running a major event. 

On weeks like this, I fall back on Charlie Gilkie’s theory that we can progress/manage five active projects over the course of a week, and trying to stretch beyond that leads to diminishing returns and frustration. 

If you’ve got any kind of perfectionist tendency, five sounds like a terrifying constraint, but it’s worse when you consider that Gilkie’s includes major personal goals or recurring commitments as a project. 

Since how many projects we finish is more important than how many we start, we do ourselves no favors by committing to more projects than we’ll be able to do. In reality, three projects is a better limit for creative and/or professional projects because it leaves bandwidth to use for life/personal projects and accounts for the work we’re doing but not counting (Gilkey, Charlie. Start Finishing,  p. 83).

The life/personal projects are the ones that sneak up on you. While I’m loathe to refer to my partner as a “project”, doing any kind of to-do list that ignores the fact that I live with and love someone with chronic pain conditions undersells the impact that has on my ability to get stuff done. There are days when they have to come first, or I need to pick up the slack on things they’re in too much pain to do, and failing to account for that will 

This week’s also seen some big movement on the job-search front, so there’s been a fair amount of interview prep, plus time for anxiety and second-guess and quietly hoping that I won’t have to stay in the day job I’m really not enjoying (here, too, Gilkey’s framework provides an interesting insight on office stress levels — I’m trying to advance nine separate ‘urgent’ projects right now, including three that came back to bite us because they didn’t receive adequate attention before being declared ‘done’).

It’s interesting to think about this in relation to my March calendar, where I was carving out writing time fairly reliably after the despair of February (where the day job ate all 5 of my projects, then came back for seconds and thirds) right up until last Friday. I’ve been perplexed as to why I lost momentum, but looking at it with Gilkey’s five active projects in mind, I can see two clear points where the “spare” project I was using for writing and Patreoning got eaten up.

First, I spent Saturday putting together an application for the job I’ll be interviewing for after work today.

Second, my partner fell off a stool and hit their head pretty hard on the edge of the bed, which has taken them out of commission for much of the last week. This meant picking up a bunch of Brain Jar tasks they’d been handling/monitoring, while also supporting them and picking up some of the household chores. 

An interesting thing I’ve noticed — I’m got a potential failure point baked into the calendar set-up at the moment, because I’m tracking three active projects (drafting, Patreon/Social engagement, Brain Jar Press work) as though I still have the capacity to progress all of them consistently. That’s a legacy of my pre-day job status, and less helpful than it once was. 

I’m not leaping to change it just yet — if I get the new job, it involves a lot of work-from-home, which changes my what can get done math a little — but I’m making a note to review and rethink this once we get to May.

Every Book Is Evergreen

One of the most useful parts of Thompson’s Merchants of Culture is the breakdown of the five modes of capital used in the publishing industry and its adjacent fields. I’ve used these to build a publishing company, guide my writing career, and solve all manner of problems.

But I also see a gap, born of Thompson’s focus. He specifically calls out Financial Capital as a key form of leverage, encapsulating all the cash-on-hand resources as well as the ability to generate credit, financing, and investment. It’s a key part of any artistic organisation, as very little happens without it. 

The missing element — based on my experience — is probably time, which doesn’t appear anywhere else on his list. Traditional publishers default to the velocity models, focusing on a short, hot burn with sales — they generate interest, release the bulk of their stock into the world, and expect to sell the most copies in the first month. Failure to do so means using financial resources to warehouse books, using connections and marketing to keep books alive after the rest of the industry has set them aside, and tying up human capital managing the unsold books. That’s only viable for the evergreen titles, which generate so much interest there is constant demand.

Indie publishers can work slow, because the books are always there. The financial cost of storing an ebook or print-on-demand title is negligible, so it doesn’t matter if they sell tomorrow, next week, next month, or in five years.

If you wait long enough—and keep your costs low—every book is profitable.

And you can overcome a lot of financial resources by thinking long term and embracing the time to DIY and build your skills. 

When you’re an indie publisher, every book is evergreen. And that means you can take chances, step away from the status quo, and do something surprising with utter confidence that one day—maybe months, maybe years—it will pay off.

You can write the book of your heart and eventually it will find its people. Maybe slowly, a reader gained here and there, but they will come.