1 January 2018
Since I first began writing historical nonfiction books fourteen months ago, I have had to emphasize to everyone, from friends and family, to the caseworker reevaluating my EBT application, that my job isn't nearly as impressive as it sounds. Yes, it requires monumental effort and a certain degree of skill to research, write, and publish a 35,000-word manuscript on a different historical subject every month. But the money it pays barely folds, and as for prestige, my publisher-some guy in New Jersey I've only ever communicated with via email-sticks a male pseudonym on the covers and pays me a lump sum only after I sign an NDA. I see no royalties, and my name never appears in connection with the published books.
