The starving artist archetype teaches us not only that there is “no money” in the arts but also that artists are simply bad with whatever money does manage to come their way. No wonder artists (myself included) struggle with scarcity mindsets. Even now—after three years afloat as a small business and independent artist—I have to actively work through financial anxiety and money dysmorphia (a term I learned earlier this year from theSkimm) on a regular basis. 

I only started getting comfortable putting money regularly into my art practice after signing up for artist business workshops that my state art council had advertised in their newsletter. (Big shout out to the folx at Mass Cultural Council who put together monthly artist opportunities through ArtSake!) Participating in business workshops geared specifically toward artists helped me understand that my socialization around money was negatively impacting my business decisions (and therefore my art practice). They also helped me realize that (responsibly) spending money to make money actually can be an act of self-care. 

So, lying down on my office floor with bank statements, highlighters, and pens scattered around me, I’m writing this post with the hope that sharing the ways I’ve given myself permission to invest in my own art practice will lend you some courage to (responsibly) invest in your own too. 

In the years since I graduated with my MFA from Virginia Tech, I’ve helped dozens of writers apply to Creative Writing MFA and PhD programs. Through our work together, some of these writers ultimately received admission offers from programs like Brown, Columbia, and the University of Cincinnati. Others decided that they ought to wait for another season of their life to send in an application. And others still decided the MFA wasn’t right for them after all.

Is it weird to say that I feel just as fulfilled when a writer realizes the MFA definitely isn’t their next step as I do when a writer gets into their dream school? Let me be the first to say that pursuing an MFA was one of the best decisions of my life—it totally changed my relationship to writing and how I saw (and now see) myself as a writer. MFAs, though, are also often romanticized, and applicants usually don’t have an accurate understanding of what an MFA can and cannot “do” for them, both professionally and artistically.

If the prospect of reading 31 books over 31 days sounds both exhilarating and daunting to you, you are in excellent company. I first learned about the Sealey Challenge in July 2021. Both that year and the next, I piled up my books in a gloriously messy stack. I visited some indie bookstores (and many more libraries), got to Day 3 or 4 of the challenge, followed the hashtag #thesealeychallenge, liked some posts online, and really relished in the online community. And then Week 2 would hit. Life kept happening. When I inevitably missed 3 or 4 days in a row, I’d feel frustrated and guilty—even though, if I had been honest with myself, from the start I already knew that reading 31 books over 31 days was not sustainable (for me). ⁠

A sustainable writing practice (and I love that it’s called a practice because practice implies experimentation and imperfection) is essentially working toward a lifestyle that allows you to be creative and to keep writing over a long period of time. Cultivating a sustainable writing practice is about cultivating conditions that not only steer you away from burnout but also steer you toward a higher quality of life. This means developing a mindset toward your writing practice that is realistic, motivating, and (self-)compassionate.