I was at a friend’s house a few days ago. Her husband, an intelligent man who I quite like, always makes a point of asking how the “book writing” is going, although what he really means is “how much are you making?” I know this to be a fact because he has, in the past, actually come right out and asked me how much money I earned from my books.

I didn’t ask him what he earned, or if he asked his dentist, lawyer or next-door-neighbor how much money they made, though I was sorely tempted. Instead I explained that for every $1 a book sells for, the bookseller (Amazon, B&N, Chapters/Indigo etc.) will take 40-45% off the top, the publisher will take anywhere from 50 to 70% of that, an agent, should the author have one, 15% of that, and the author…well, you get the idea. Unless you’re selling a million copies, you’re not buying a chateau in France.

Anyway, since that time, “Joe” no longer asks how much I’m making. Instead he asks how many books I’ve sold—no fool is our Joe, who, after years in the financial world, can quickly do the math. This time his approach is a bit less direct. “So, have you sold 100,000 copies yet?” he asks.

“No,” I tell him, “Not yet.”

“50,000?”

I shake my head.

“Not even for all three novels?” He’s incredulous at this point.

“Well, to be fair, A HOLE IN ONE just came out. I won’t have a royalty statement for that one until mid July.” I refrain from telling him it’s never going to make up the difference between my current sales stats and 100,000 copies unless a miracle happens (hello, Ellen, hello Oprah, are you reading this?) but Joe is no dummy. He’s already figured out I’m lucky to be paying for groceries with this gig. 

“So, this is a hobby for you, then,” he says, and it’s about then that I decide he’s going to be the victim in my next book. There are some perks to writing murder mysteries. Even ones that don’t sell 100,000 copies.

“It’s not a hobby,” I tell him. “I don’t have a work pension. My books are my pension. I’m in it for the long view.”

He raises an eyebrow and casts a surreptitious glance at my friend. I know what they’re thinking. Delusional.

But here’s the thing. Way back in another lifetime, my first fulltime job was as a file clerk in the credit department of a major North American insurance company. I didn’t have any job experience or skills to speak of, but I was smart and willing to work hard, to take courses and learn from others and apply that knowledge, but most importantly, I believed in myself. Not once did I doubt that I’d make it.

And I did. Within 5 years I worked my way up the ladder, promotion after promotion, to Personal Credit Manager. Two years later, in a time when women in upper management was as rare as hen’s teeth, I was offered the position of Canadian Division Credit Manager. I also had the honor of being the youngest Division Manager (male or female) in the company’s history.

I may never earn enough money from my books to buy a chateau in France, but one day I’ll sell 100,000 copies. You read it here first. Because I’m taking the long view. It’s never let me down before. It’s not going to let me down now. And even if it does, I’m never going to admit it to Joe.

Other authors, have you been asked how much you earn? If so, what was your response?

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