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Issue No. 314
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Oh, hi friends!

I’m not creative.

I’m not a writer.

I’m not a runner.

I’m not good with numbers.

I’m not an artist.

Let’s banish the nots.

I’m     creative.

I’m     a writer.

I’m     a runner.

I’m     good with numbers.

I’m     an artist.

Much better, yes?

"Success, for me, is synonymous with making money. I want to write books, but I really want to sell books. I want advances that make my husband gasp and fat royalty checks twice a year. I want movie studios to pay me for option rights.”

This NYT column “I Want to Be Rich and I’m Not Sorry” ignited a fierce debate—1,100 comments!—proof that money talk is loaded with emotion. (h/t Nisha Chittal)

But it also inflamed a little ember in myself that’s recently been hard to reconcile: the idea that being a struggling artist is still somehow romantic, because it symbolizes you’re “pure” and fighting the good fight to be noticed for your artistic merits.

Why is it gauche to want to maintain creative credibility and be rich at the same time?
Why are artists supposed to be happy and poor?
Why do we still tell these stories to ourselves?

Why can’t we all be rich beyond our wildest dreams—rich in imagination and creative capital and rich in our bank accounts, too?

I want to be rich and I'm not sorry, too.

Glenda Jackson is 81 years old and was nominated for a Tony Award for Three Tall Women yesterday. And you know what she’s doing? She’s going to work.
SHE'S GOING TO WORK.
(PS — Read Tim's round-up of Tony nominees and snubs.)

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Thanks, as always, for reading.

Love, Kara

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