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Are you a writer? Where the money comes from?

Why it’s a problem that writers never talk about where their money comes from?

Here’s my life. My husband and I get up each morning at 7 o’clock and he showers while I make coffee.

By the time he’s dressed I’m already sitting at my desk writing. He kisses me goodbye then leaves for the job where he makes good money, draws excellent benefits and gets many perks, such as travel, catered lunches and full reimbursement for the gym where I attend yoga midday.

His career has allowed me to work only sporadically, as a consultant, in a field I enjoy.

Why it’s a problem that writers never talk about where their money comes from

The truth is, my husband’s hefty salary makes my life as a writer easy. Pretending otherwise doesn’t help anyone

All that disclosure is crass because in this world where women will sit around discussing the various topiary shapes of their bikini waxes, the conversation about money (or privilege) is the one we never have. Why?

I think it’s the Marie Antoinette syndrome: Those with privilege and luck don’t want the riffraff knowing the details. After all, if “those people” understood the differences in our lives, they might revolt.

Or, God forbid, not see us as somehow more special, talented and/or deserving than them.

There’s a special version of this masquerade that we writers put on. Two examples:

I attended a packed reading (I’m talking 300+ people) about a year and a half ago. The author was very well-known, a magnificent nonfictionist who has, deservedly, won several big awards.

He also happens to be the heir to a mammoth fortune. Mega-millions. In other words he’s a man who has never had to work one job, much less two. He has several children; I know, because they were at the reading with him, all lined up. I heard someone say they were all traveling with him, plus two nannies, on his worldwide tour.

None of this takes away from his brilliance.

Yet, when an audience member — young, wide-eyed, clearly not clued in — rose to ask him how he’d managed to spend 10 years writing his current masterpiece — What had he done to sustain himself and his family during that time? — he told her in a serious tone that it had been tough but he’d written a number of magazine articles to get by.

I heard a titter pass through the half of the audience that knew the truth. But the author, impassive, moved on and left this woman thinking he’d supported his Manhattan life for a decade with a handful of pieces in the Nation and Salon.

Example two.

A reading in a different city, featuring a 30-ish woman whose debut novel had just appeared on the front page of the New York Times Book Review. I didn’t love the book (a coming-of-age story set among wealthy teenagers) but many people I respect thought it was great, so I defer.

The author had herself attended one of the big, East Coast prep schools, while her parents were busy growing their careers on the New York literary scene. These were people — her parents — who traded Christmas cards with William Maxwell and had the Styrons over for dinner. She, the author, was their only beloved child.

After prep school, she’d earned two creative writing degrees (Iowa plus an Ivy). Her first book was being heralded by editors and reviewers all over the country, many of whom had watched her grow up. It was a phenomenon even before it hit bookshelves. She was an immediate star.

When (again) an audience member, clearly an undergrad, rose to ask this glamorous writer to what she attributed her success, the woman paused, then said that she had worked very hard and she’d had some good training, but she thought in looking back it was her decision never to have children that had allowed her to become a true artist.

If you have kids, she explained to the group of desperate nubile writers, you have to choose between them and your writing. Keep it pure. Don’t let yourself be distracted by a baby’s cry.

I was dumbfounded.

I wanted to leap to my feet and shout. “Hello? Alice Munro! Doris Lessing! Joan Didion!” Of course, there are thousands of other extraordinary writers who managed to produce art despite motherhood. But the essential point was that, the quality of her book notwithstanding, this author’s chief advantage had nothing to do with her reproductive decisions. It was about connections. Straight up. She’d had them since birth.

In my opinion, we do an enormous “let them eat cake” disservice to our community when we obfuscate the circumstances that help us write, publish and in some way succeed.

I can’t claim the wealth of the first author (not even close); nor do I have the connections of the second. I don’t have their fame either. But I do have a huge advantage over the writer who is living paycheck to paycheck, or lonely and isolated, or dealing with a medical condition, or working a full-time job.

How can I be so sure? Because I used to be poor, overworked and overwhelmed.

And I produced zero books during that time.

Throughout my 20s, I was married to an addict who tried valiantly (but failed, over and over) to stay straight. We had three children, one with autism, and lived in poverty for a long, wretched time.

In my 30s I divorced the man because it was the only way out of constant crisis. For the next 10 years, I worked two jobs and raised my three kids alone, without child support or the involvement of their dad.

I published my first novel at 39, but only after a teaching stint where I met some influential writers and three months living with my parents while I completed the first draft.

After turning in that manuscript, I landed a pretty cushy magazine editor’s job. A year later, I met my second husband. For the first time I had a true partner, someone I could rely on who was there in every way for me and our kids.

Life got easier. I produced a nonfiction book, a second novel and about 30 essays within a relatively short time.

Today, I am essentially “sponsored” by this very loving man who shows up at the end of the day, asks me how the writing went, pours me a glass of wine, then takes me out to eat. He accompanies me when I travel 500 miles to do a 75-minute reading, manages my finances, and never complains that my dark, heady little books have resulted in low advances and rather modest sales.

I completed my third novel in eight months flat. I started the book while on a lovely vacation. Then I wrote happily and relatively quickly because I had the time and the funding, as well as help from my husband, my agent and a very talented editor friend.

Without all those advantages, I might be on page 52. OK, there’s mine. Now show me yours.

Ann Bauer is a frequent contributor to Salon and the author of a new novel, “Forgiveness 4 You.”

Pedro Almodóvar: ‘Nobody sings. There’s no humour. I just wanted restraint’

  7 August 2016

The director has limited himself to ‘pure drama’ for his 20th movie. Here he talks about Brexit, the vanished freedom of the 1980s, and his need for solitude

Is Pedro Almodóvar getting more respectable? You might say so.

When the international film scene first caught up with the Spanish writer-director in the late 80s, he had already been notorious in Spain for nearly a decade with his films inspired by low life and high melodrama – lurid, cheerfully scandalous, irrepressibly polysexual stories of porn stars, punk rockers, serial killers and rebel nuns.

Now, 20 features into his career, Almodóvar has long been recognised as a European classic, with his films since the mid-90s, including All About My Mother and Volver, largely turning away from outrage and perversity.

Instead, Almodóvar has come to specialise in emotional complexity, stylistic elegance and a distinctly high-art sobriety, never more so than in his latest film, Julieta, based on three short stories by the Nobel-winning Canadian author Alice Munro.

It’s little surprise to see Almodóvar receiving one of the ultimate accolades for professional seriousness – an honorary doctorate from the University of Oxford, which he was awarded in June alongside composer Arvo Pärt, Apple designer Jonathan Ive and other international notables from science, law and theology.

There’s a certain piquant irony to the director of church-baiting comedy Dark Habits being honoured alongside a Czech monsignor. Typically, however, the film-maker saw the camp side of things: filmed after the ceremony examining his scarlet doctoral robes, he commented: “I thought it was a Sister Act parody.” 

Andrew Bossone shared this link

“I’m afraid of turning into a misanthrope. I want to see what other people’s problems are and to empathise with them. I have to be careful not to isolate myself too much.”

The same week, I meet Almodóvar, 66, in a London hotel.

He enthuses about the honour and about the laudatio, the official address in Latin, a language he learned as a boy at a religious boarding school in Extremadura.

“The ceremony was gorgeous,” he says, leaning across a table in a bright tangerine polo shirt, his shock of silver hair making him look oddly like a chunkier cousin of David Byrne.

“I was very good at Latin. I was so pleased to listen to the laudatio because I knew what the guy was saying. There was something very old about it, but also a very modern point of view, very alive. I loved it. It was on the level of the Nobel prizes,” he beams.

Almodóvar’s last two films marked a return to his earlier, outré mode. The Skin I Live In, which reunited him with one of his most famous discoveries, Antonio Banderas, was a gothic surgical drama with a transgender twist.

Less successfully, I’m So Excited!, a hyper-camp farce set on an airliner, was loved by Spanish audiences but nose-dived elsewhere (somewhat lost in translation was the film’s intended dimension of political allegory, depicting a Spain without a credible pilot at the controls).

But Almodóvar finds himself back on terra firma with his most severe film to date, Julieta.

Based on stories from Alice Munro’s 2004 collection Runaway, it charts the biography of one woman played by two newcomers to Almodóvar’s cinema – Emma Suárez, as Julieta in middle age, and Adriana Ugarte as her younger self.

Structured as a flashback, the complex narrative takes in a dreamlike night of passion, a love triangle, subsequent tragedy and Julieta’s retreat into depressive isolation. Rather than melodrama, Almodóvar has said he was after something more austere this time – “pure drama”.

“Not that my other films are impure,” Almodóvar explains in Spanish (he skips in this interview between his native language and slightly rusty English, sometimes turning the standby interpreter beside him). “‘Impurity’ has a moral meaning in Spanish, which I don’t like. I just wanted much more restraint.”

His intention was to strip out the familiar traces of his style: “Nobody sings, no one talks about cinema and there’s no humour. I had to force myself there; sometimes during rehearsals the odd comic line would come up, which was a relief for the actors. But after the rehearsals, I decided, no humour. I thought it was the best way to tell such a painful story. And also, you know, it’s fantastic that in my 20th film I could make a change. I mean, this is very welcome.”

Almodóvar had hoped to adapt Munro’s stories for some time and even tipped his viewers a wink by sneaking a copy of Runaway into a scene in The Skin I Live In.

Intended to be his first English-language film, his adaptation, originally titled Silence, was to star Meryl Streep. In the end, however, he balked at working in English, and at the Canadian cultural specificity of Munro’s world, and set the story closer to home – Madrid, Galicia, the Pyrenees. “It’s not a faithful adaptation, but once I moved it to Spain, I had to make it really mine.”

He loves Munro’s stories, he says, because “there’s so much about her that I identify with – she’s a housewife who writes” (in recent interviews, he often refers to himself today as “a housewife”).

The essence of Munro’s writing, he says, is “a great strangeness. What I like best about her is something that’s impossible to translate to cinema, her commentaries around the main incidents – minor comments – but they become the most important thing in the story. At the end, I feel I know less about the character than at the beginning. For me, that’s a very positive thing.”

In the end, Almodóvar decided to have his protagonist played by two very different performers, a choice that yields a moving reveal when a towel is removed from Julieta’s head after a bath to reveal that Ugarte has been replaced by Suárez, visibly 20 years older.

I don’t trust ageing makeup,” says Almodóvar. “It pulls me out of a film. When you use an actor who has aged, there’s something that you can’t imitate – the eyes, the way she looks at things, the rhythm of walking, the body language.”

This coup de cinéma is all the more poignant for viewers who may remember Emma Suárez from the 90s as the angelic-looking lead of Julio Medem’s surreal existential dramas The Red Squirrel and Earth. Two decades on, her looks and acting style have acquired a stately severity that is absolutely compelling and all the more moving for being so contained.

As for the younger Julieta, she’s played with hyper-alert energy by Adriana Ugarte, the star of a hugely popular couture-themed TV series, El tiempo entre costuras (literally, The Time Between Stitches). The director cast her purely because she was superb in her audition, he says; he has no interest in Spanish TV. “For me, it isn’t a reference. I can’t judge the actors in Spanish TV fiction. I mean, they are… brrr! Poor things!” he laughs. “They don’t have time to do a good job.”

Almodóvar has always said that he works with different actors in different ways.

On Julieta, he enforced a rule of strict reserve – no comic lines, but also no tears, no overt emoting. He gave Suárez a reading list of books on pain and loss, including Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking, while directing Ugarte seems to have involved teaching both deportment and social history.

“The way I directed Adriana was much more physical. It was more to explain how in the 80s a young lady behaved. Twenty-something girls now are so different from the girls of that age. I had to explain that a girl in the 80s would have felt free to fuck a man on a train if she felt like it. There was a feeling of extreme liberty and equality among the people that I knew, men and women. The modern women of that time behaved like men – in their sexuality, in the decisions they made. The bad education I gave Adriana was to make her a woman of the 80s.”

Whether or not Almodóvar can claim authoritative knowledge of how young women behave today, he certainly knows what he’s talking about with regard to Iberian subcultural history – for cinemagoers around the world, his name is synonymous with 80s Spain and its mores.

Born in a village in the La Mancha region, Almodóvar moved to Madrid in 1968, got involved in underground theatre and started making Super-8 films variously inspired by Andy Warhol, John Waters and the Hollywood melodrama tradition (he was already also an art cinema devotee, passionate about Bergman and Antonioni).

He eventually emerged as a mainstay in the Movida Madrileña (the “Madrid Scene”), an explosion of art, music, design, nightlife and general cultural liberation that lasted into the mid-80s and was a celebratory, wildly eclectic response to the end of the Franco dictatorship.

Almodóvar’s early work was overtly provocative, intensely sexual and marked by comic-strip flippancy. His barely seen first feature in 1978 was entitled Folla… folla… fólleme Tim (Fuck… Fuck… Fuck Me Tim) and, two years later, his canonic debut proper Pepi, Luci, Bom featured the director himself presiding over an erections contest.

His 80s films are among the classics of queer cinema, although Almodóvar has always refused to be categorised specifically as a gay film-maker. A friend of mine recalls him fulminating when she asked him whether he made gay films: “Did people ask Hitchcock if he made fat films?”

Almodóvar is known for his reluctance to discuss his private life, which is, in any case, very rarely touched on in the Spanish media, although some papers have identified photographer Fernando Iglesias, who sometimes plays cameo roles in his films, as being his partner for over a decade

I ask Almodóvar whether he is nostalgic for the energies of the movida years, of a different, more optimistic Spain. “I don’t like nostalgia as a feeling but it’s true that tolerance, beauty, freedom are what defined the 80s and it’s not what defines this decade in Spain. The films I made at that time, I had no trouble making, nobody got offended, yet they’re quite provocative.”

He is convinced that his 1983 anti-clerical comedy Dark Habits could not have been made today – “It would have had a very radical and violent response from the religious establishment.”

There’s a new phenomenon on the rise in Spain, he says – “the offence to Catholic sensibilities”. He mentions a recent Gay Pride poster, which showed two Virgins, associated with Barcelona and Valencia, kissing. “The archbishops held masses to condemn it. That would have been unthinkable in the 80s.”

We talk about the current state of politics, Spanish in particular and European in general, since our interview happens to fall in the few days between the outcome of the Brexit vote and the general election in Spain.

Almodóvar commiserates with me on the turn of affairs in Britain. “In Spain, we are all in shock. For my generation and the generation that came after, London represented freedom. I first came here in 1971 during the Franco dictatorship, so you can’t imagine what that meant for a young Spanish man.”

Regarding the bad morale arising from Brexit, he adds: “If it extends to Spain, it will favour this feeling of fear and uncertainty and the more conservative side of Spanish politics, the Partido Popular (People’s party).”

He was right, of course: the following Sunday’s results saw the rightwing PP maintaining its position in power.

Almodóvar had already voted in advance for the leftwing Podemos; he has been a prominent critic of the PP and is among many who regard the recent massive hike on VAT for cinema tickets as the government’s punitive revenge on the film community’s opposition to Spain’s involvement in the Iraq war.

There’s no doubt that the downbeat mood of austerity-era Spain has played its part in determining the tenor of Julieta.

Reality always filters through into my films, even when I try to reject it. It finds a crack to seep in through. The climate of the last four years in Spain has been of enormous unhappiness and even though I haven’t personally suffered from the harshness of the economic situation, I’m surrounded by people who have. I don’t think Julieta is a metaphor for Spain today but it’s no accident that my 80s films were much happier.”

Julieta also reflects his personal mood. “In the last three years, I’ve suffered physical pain and great solitude.”

If he had written the script in a different decade, he says, he could imagine Julieta going out, meeting people in the streets of Madrid. “She would be involved in others’ problems. Now it was very easy for me just to talk about her kind of solitude. I know a lot about solitude.”

I ask what he means and why especially now, since he has often talked about solitude in the past; in one book of interviews, he recalls feeling isolated as a 10-year-old because other kids weren’t interested in discussing Ingmar Bergman. “In this case,” he says, “solitude is something I choose. Anyway, you have to experience loneliness for this sort of work.”

How so – because he needs to be alone to write?

“It’s a mixture of everything,” he shrugs. “It’s a mixture of time passing, of getting older, the fact that going out is much less exciting. I’m at an age when everything is less exciting and I have to look for inspiration much more inside myself and my home than outside.”

There is a downside, he admits. “I’m afraid of turning into a misanthrope. I want to see what other people’s problems are and to empathise with them. I have to be careful not to isolate myself too much.”

This is something, indeed, that hostile Spanish critics have accused him of as his international profile has risen.

He shrugs again. “Anyway, I don’t want to complain… but [he’s speaking English now and emphasises the but] I have a lot of migraines, I don’t hear with one ear and I’m photophobic. I don’t go to award ceremonies because TV lights mean having a migraine the whole evening. So the press in Spain think I feel scorn for the ceremony.

“Sometimes solitude comes from something specific, like the fact that I don’t smoke, I don’t drink, I don’t take drugs, I don’t hear well. I don’t want to be a drag for other people, so I stay at home. It’s as simple as that.”

Because of his hearing problem, he had to warn the people sitting beside him at lunch in Oxford that his conversation might accidentally sound “silly or surrealistic. And they were very charming about it”.

Whatever his longer-term woes, 2016 has not been an easy year for Almodóvar.

In April, his long-standing repertory player Chus Lampreave, a much-loved specialist in grandmother and eccentric doyenne roles, died.

A few days later, shortly before the Spanish release of Julieta, it emerged in the Panama Papers, the leaked documents from Panamanian law firm Mossack Fonseca, that El Deseo, the production company founded by the director and his brother, Agustín, had set up an offshore company in the early 90s. Given the director’s prominence as a leftwinger, this was a major embarrassment, to say the least.

Agustín issued a statement to explain that the short-lived company had been set up to facilitate co-productions but was never used; Pedro commented that he accepted his responsibility but later added that he and his brother were some of the least important names implicated: “If it was a film, we wouldn’t even be extras.”

It was a very bad moment, Almodóvar says. “I was on the front of every single newspaper and TV programme. The press was using me, in the most sensationalist way possible. It was awful, because it’s very hard to be part of a list of people that you hate. But I felt used by the media. I’m absolutely against tax havens but I’m also against the commercialisation of news.”

This unwanted exposure, he says, partly accounts for the fact that his usually faithful and very diverse Spanish public – “adolescents, many, many gay people, lots of old ladies, housewives, every category and every profession” – seemed to reject Julieta. The film scored his worst Spanish box-office in 20 years, although it went on to triumph in France and Italy

One reason for Julieta’s disappointing domestic showing, surely, is that it is such a dark film, hardly calculated to please a nation facing tough times.

The director also points out that Spanish audience figures have diminished anyway, partly because of that VAT hike. It must be galling for him, though, that Julieta was significantly trumped at the box-office by a sex comedy called Kiki, Love to Love (not to be confused with the director’s own 1993 Kika), which, by all accounts, is in the spirit of Almodóvar’s 80s work.

The director’s spirits visibly rise when I ask him about the retrospective of his films that has just begun at London’s BFI Southbank, for which he has also made a personal selection of must-sees from the history of Spanish cinema.

Which title would he most urge British audiences to see? Without hesitation, he chooses 1964 drama Aunt Tula, while among his own films he recommends Law of Desire and Talk to Her.

He clearly takes his curatorial role seriously because a few days later I get an email from his publicist to say that Almodóvar has had a rethink – scratch Aunt Tula, he’ll go for another early 60s title, the black comedy El verdugo (The Executioner).

On the sources of his own inspiration, Almodóvar claims the choice sometimes just imposes itself, as presumably it did when Alice Munro’s stories came to fascinate him. “The truth is, I’m not very conscious when I write, when I decide to do one story and not another. I’m very permeable – I don’t exactly decide the story myself. It sounds paranormal.”

I’m curious to know what the maestro is reading now and his assistant goes into the next room to fetch a paperback – a Spanish translation of Nothing Grows By Moonlight, a novel by Norwegian writer Torborg Nedreaas.

“It’s fantastic, it’s incredible,” Almodóvar enthuses. I Google it later; it’s about a miner’s daughter who forms a masochistic obsession with her teacher. It seems just the sort of thing that Almodóvar might feel like adapting if he remains in his current downbeat mood, but you wonder if he’ll allow himself some jokes in it.

Julieta is released on 26 August. The Almodóvar season is at BFI Southbank throughout August and September


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