What About The Million?

We see so many The One in a Million stories. They’re the stories of people who, despite the odds, pulled themselves out of financial strife and became famous. Musk, Lil Nas X, Rowling, Gates, Nicki Minaj, Bezos, every millionaire, billionaire, or moderately successful artist, makes the same claim. They say that they worked hard and got lucky, and You Could Too! The legitimacy of this claim varies, (obviously, I’m not going to suggest that Emerald Mine Musk and Wall Street Bezos were actually in financial strife) but is still parroted by them all.

It’s essential for us—all of us—to believe this narrative. With enough hard work and good luck, we can also become famous or rich, or at least own a three-bedroom house with our wife who does the cooking and cleaning for our two-point-five children. This is often called ‘The American Dream’ but—as an Australian, I can promise you—it was the Australian dream as well. So, what do these two countries (and other countries I haven’t listed but have a similar set of values) have in common? Capitalism, baby! It’s Capitalism and it sucks, but you can read Marx or something yourself for a critique of the economic structure. I’m here to talk about my feelings.

Belief in this story leads me to ponder a terrible question: What about The Million? What are we going to do about The Million people for every single moderately successful content creator, who are all washed away by time? We just let them get ground down into The Soulless Minimum Wage Worker Who Couldn’t. In art classes at my university, I can pick each and every single one that will never be anything more than what they are right now. I’m on that list every time. A list of people whose art isn’t likely to go anywhere. People who struggle with finding an audience. People who make art that doesn’t quite “click”. People who can’t focus on one project at a time. We’re all just struggling to try and make something out of ourselves, even if we can only get part way, and most of us will only get a few steps up the road.

I almost don’t mind, but sometimes I have a cheeky little midnight breakdown about it. In twenty years or less, I’ll be pondering why I threw my life away not doing something more productive. Or, I’ll get myself into gear and do something productive, and then regret never trying to take the chance on something artistic. As if I could do something meaningful through my art, despite the fact that I know better by now.

That isn’t some sort of self-deprication. The reality is, there are few pieces of art that are culturally meaningful and every single one that is, makes me want to stick pencils in my ears. Sometimes, it’s because the thing is just a cash grab and I wish people would stop liking it; it’s boring. Sometimes, it’s because the people telling me what they got out of it didn’t understand the most basic premise of the story. And I can’t even blame them.

A story can literally smack its audience over the head with how imperialism is bad, or how we shouldn’t commit war crimes, and someone will misunderstand. Like throwing a stick for your dog and watching them come back with a boomerang. They got something out of it, but seriously, dude, where did you get that? Then I re-watch it. I keep in mind what they saw, and I see it too. They’re right, of course, because while the story tries so hard to say, "Don’t commit violent acts of terrorism" it also makes the horrible actions an aesthetic. It glorifies and eroticises the exact thing it claims to be against. If it isn’t pleasing to consume, no one will buy it. If no one will buy it, they can’t sell it. If they can’t sell it, get outta here! What’s this look like, a charity? Beat it.

So, I sell the stories. They tell me to change this, change that, take this out, make this more important, adjust this, develop that, and suddenly I have a different story and I’m sifting through the remains of my art, weeping. They don’t pay me well, but they do pay me. I’m still not famous. I’m not The One in a Million. My legacy, my story, isn’t even mine. I, and all the other Millions, stand beneath the great legacy of The One and prop it up. We’re a nameless, faceless mass of failure who could’ve—would’ve—made it, but didn’t work hard enough.

So, I refuse to sell out. Wowie, look at me go. What a good Morality Soldier I am. I won’t let them take my art and desecrate it. Good for me! I starve.

I don’t think I’ll ever break into The One in a Million club. I don’t think I want it anymore. I’ve decided that I’m okay with the fact that I am mediocre. I will mourn all the art, though. Not just mine, but all of it. Every piece that we lost or didn’t see because it wasn’t shown to us by The Lord Algorithm. Things that end up lost in the sea of art. Things that were changed so much they aren’t themselves anymore. Things that end up buried in desk drawers. I hope all those things and all their artists found peace.

Maybe this isn't the perfect answer to the question 'how do I make money from my work', but I think it may be an honest one.