In 2005, for reasons that defy rational examination, I left a tenured job in the English department at the University of Missouri. For a time after that I attempted to balance a serious bit of volunteer work (tutoring African refugees in English) with writing. Gradually it became clear that I hadn't the kind of brain that would allow me to do both well, and so I went over to writing, essentially as if it were a full-time job.
Now, like many self-publishing writers, I wonder where I am. I am selling some books--let's say about one a day on average--almost enough to buy my own lunch, though not enough to treat someone else. Allowing for the time already spent in research and writing, I suppose I might be making a dime or so an hour. This doesn't sound like a job. It might be a hobby.
On the other hand, the work serves a social purpose. Summary Justice is contributing to a reconsideration of the history race relations in Columbia, and Watching the Watchers may be having a faint influence on discussions about law enforcement and race. So maybe this is volunteer work after all, though my conscience won't allow me to say that it is as important as the ESL tutoring I did before or nearly as important as the work of many other volunteers around town.
The closest analogy I can find at this moment to what I'm doing is the non-profit organization where workers earn below-market wages, but further social causes. My wages are considerably below even "below-market" wages, but that's fine. And even if it weren't fine, I almost feel I wouldn't have any choice. At this point, it feels like a compulsion.
