The Money Will Follow. (Or Not.)

I’ve just started re-reading a self-help book I bought 20 years ago, Marsha Sinetar’s Do What You Love, the Money Will Follow. It’s short and easy to read, and has wonderful supportive things to say on every page. All the same, her central thesis seems just a bit naive to me. Maybe I’m just wearing my cranky pants today. Not sure.

I love doing what I love, and because I have a natural interest in having a roof over my head, I’d certainly like the money to follow. So I’m going to keep reading. But it seems to me her thesis rests on a few unstated and problematical assumptions.

First, she’s assuming that you’re good at doing what you love. If you’re lousy at it, it doesn’t matter how fervently or sincerely you love it; the money will not follow. To take an extreme example, if you’re suffering from cerebral palsy, it really doesn’t matter how much you love playing the piano, except in terms of your spiritual fulfillment. A career that involves piano playing is probably not in your future.

I don’t have any neurological impairments that I’m aware of, but I didn’t start learning to play the piano until I was in my 40s. I’ll never be any damn good at it. I love it, but as a money-attracting activity it’s a complete dud.

Second, she’s assuming that there’s a market for what you love doing. Even before our current economic difficulties began to mount, this was not a good assumption. Let’s suppose you love writing avant-garde poetry, for instance. You may be among the five most talented avant-garde poets in the world — but don’t give up your day job, because the market for avant-garde poetry is really, really small.

This applies pretty well to my interest in writing interactive fiction. I love doing it, and I’m gradually building a modest amount of skill at it, but the market is vanishingly close to nonexistent.

Third, she’s assuming that when you start doing what you love, your life expectancy will be long enough for the activity to bear fruit in terms of economic rewards. This makes sense if you’re 20, or 30, or even 45. By the time you turn 60 (as I did recently) it makes less sense. If you’re 60 and you suddenly decide your passion is computer programming … well, you’ll probably turn 65 about the time you get a college degree that will impress an employer (if you can even afford to go to college full-time).

As an entry-level programmer, you’ll be competing with 25-year-olds who have the stamina to work a 70-hour week, but that doesn’t matter, because an employer would have to be an idiot to hire a 65-year-old when she could hire a 25-year-old for the same programming job. Us oldsters tend to retire, and then the employer would have to replace us, so it’s a lousy investment for them.

Aging also bears on Sinetar’s fourth assumption, which is that you’ll have the stamina to see it through. I’m finding that there are times when what I love doing is (metaphorically) sitting on my front porch in my rocking chair and watching the petunias grow. I own neither a rocking chair nor petunias, but you get the idea. Younger people are, among other things, in love with the idea of making their mark in the world, of accomplishing big things in their chosen field. I’m a lot more interested in how I feel today, and less willing to jump through hoops in order to have a fulfilling career five or ten years down the road. I may not live that long.

As much as I’m attracted to the idea that I can spend all day doing what I love and expect that the universe will send me checks in the mail, I’m from Missouri. (Metaphorically. Illinois, actually.) Missouri is known as the “show me” state, or used to be. Show me the checks, or at least show me where they’re going to come from. Then I’ll believe it.