HOW I GOT OVER MY SHAME AT BEING PAID TO ENJOY MY HOBBY

Or The Art Of Heeding The Call To Write

My life changed with a phone call.

In my former life as a physics teacher, I used to come home after a hard day at work, turn on the tube and watch this local sketch comedy variety show titled The Ra Ra Show. The comedy routines were earnest, but I have to confess, painful to watch. Days later, a radio show came on where the producers of that show were interviewed. Listeners could call in with questions. I was intrigued so I dialed in. To my surprise, I got through. I disguised my voice, and asked — Who writes the jokes on the show? And that was the first time I heard of the term “scriptwriter”. Apparently, scriptwriters were paid to write jokes. Imagine that. I was so stunned I hung up. And then remembered that I did not ask for details on how I could get in on that game. I dialed again. And guess what, I got through. I disguised my voice again, pretended to be fascinated by the previous caller’s enquiry, and asked how I could send in jokes as a freelance writer. They gave me an address.

After that, I spent each day coming up with five jokes. On Friday, I had 25. Over the weekend, I typed them all up. Mailed it over on Monday. And that was that. Forgot about it. Went back to teaching Newtons laws to junior college students. Until I got a reply. They wanted to buy my jokes. 500 bucks for five jokes. And could I write more?

Could I write more????

A Dream Job

In Singapore, working male adults gather once a year in army camps and train for two to three weeks until they hit their 40's. It’s compulsory. It’s how the government ensures you don’t forget your military drills and weapon handling skills. Some men treat it as a break from the daily grind of work. A chance to reunite with friends you don’t normally meet in your circle of work. There was one chap in my army platoon. He was slender in build, had narrow eyes, tucked his civilian shirt into his pants so tightly that nary a flap of fabric peeked out from his waistline. He had “engineer” written all over him. Turns out he was an engineer in real life. Each year we met, he would ask me the same question. The conversation would go something like this.

Him — What do you do for a living?

Me — I write.

It was true. I was by then working as a scriptwriter in a television station. I literally was writing every day. And paid a salary to do so.

Him — You write?

Me — I write.

At that point, he would pause. His skin would crinkle slightly between his eyes as he frowned. He had the look of a man who thought he heard a note that went off-key in his favorite song.

Him — You get paid to write?

Me — Yes.

Him — What do you write?

Me — Stories.

Him — What kind of stories?

Me — All kinds. I make stuff up.

A longer pause. He shook his head in disbelief. It was as if he had slept and the next day, woke up to find a pig flying in his room, accompanied by a cow singing an aria.

Him — You get paid to write?

Me — Yes.

Every year. Same encounter. Same conversation. He just could not grasp the fact that there existed in Singapore, professions in the arts where, (gasp!), one could actually be paid a salary.

Paid To Play

When I was growing up, we were supposed to aspire to certain professions that assured parents that their children would earn a good salary. To the question — what do you want to be when you grow up — only four answers mattered. Engineer, lawyer, accountant, doctor. Things like dancing, painting, drawing, writing of comics, plays, sketches, short stories were hobbies. You’re not supposed to make a living from them. It’s as if you were permitted to play with your favorite toys and then come a certain date, you are supposed to put them back in the closet and never see them again.

When I decided to become a scriptwriter, it was like me telling the world that I was not done playing with my favorite toys.

And the world responded by giving me shame.

The Shame Of Doing Work You Love

I have friends who lament to me the pressure that comes with the obligation of putting food on the table. They draw a clear line between work and after work hours. Work sucks. But they treasure the time they spend on their passion hobbies. During such conversations, I nod, smile, and keep my own dirty little secret close to my heart. I can’t tell them I looked forward to each day when I went to work. I can’t say how much it thrilled me to work out the beats of a story. I cannot reveal the high I get when I see the performance of an actor bring my words to life. It seemed a real shame to actually enjoy what should be a hobby but instead has become part of one’s daily work.

When that guy in my reservist camp showed disbelief that I was paid to write, he didn’t know that he was adding a spoonful of shame to my shame bucket. Every day I spent writing for that local station, did not feel like work. There were deadlines to adhere to. Scripts I had to churn out to meet production timelines. Story meetings to hash out ideas for the next episode. There were times when my brain felt like it was being pummeled on all sides by dwarf boxers.

But it never, ever, felt like work. How could it be work when it felt like someone was literally paying me to play with my favorite toys. Shame on me for feeling good.

It took a while for the feeling to subside. But subside it did, because the love that was spent on the writing, eventually brought back love from the world.

Love From The Audience

The experience of watching your work performed by experienced actors and seeing its effect on a live audience is unforgettable. I had the surreal experience of watching total strangers crack up with laughter upon hearing a silly joke I penned the night before. I overheard two undergraduates argue over a story I wrote — how the “char siew dumpling” got its red dot — after the first episode of Under One Roof was aired. But it was only after I had read a letter from a father who thanked us for writing Growing Up as it was not only entertaining and heartwarming but taught valuable life lessons to his son, that it dawned on me.

My writing made a difference.

So can yours.

When I wrote well, and put in the hard work in the storytelling, somewhere in the world, my story would touch a heart and bring a smile.

So can yours.

No Shame In Heeding The Siren Song Of The Blank Page

Being paid a decent salary, just so you could weave some dreams on paper. Writing a script that when produced and visualized on the screen, has a chance to change a life or two, bring a smile to a stranger, and if you do your job right, banish cynicism, provoke healthy debate, open our eyes to different perspectives, put out fresh beauty in the world.

You are changing lives one word at a time.

You are touching hearts one word at a time.

You are honing a communication skill.

And if you are paid full time to do it, you are mightily blessed.

If not, do not lose your day job.

Either way, you will still be writing. You are a writer. So do be writing. There was a time when writing was a part of my work. Now it is a part of my life. And I am no longer ashamed.

To all writers who hear the siren song of the blank page, be not afraid ever more.

Walk towards the song.