I’m not one of the faithful, but I’m also not a hater. I’m fascinated by Taylor Swift’s songwriting, which I think is compelling; her marketing, which I think is genius; and by parasocial relationships in general. I was surprised and excited to get a presale code from Ticketmaster. I love a good show and was looking forward to seeing what this one was all about.
Like most people, I had a terrible time with the presale event. But by the end of a very long day, after trying for hours and being kicked off the site multiple times, with better seats disappearing into the ether again and again, I bought two tickets for Taylor Swift: the Eras Tour.
I’ve never been to a stadium show, to see anyone. This was going to be an experience, I thought.
Then I watched tickets skyrocket in price.
For months, I wondered if I should give up this experience. After having severe COVID, huge crowds are something I avoid, even outdoors (I didn’t find any pictures of a concert-goer wearing a mask at a Swift show). And as a Hard of Hearing person, screaming crowds specifically aren’t my thing. Loud noises can physically hurt.
But as my friend said, this is a hot ticket. Hundreds of thousands of people couldn’t get seats. They would do anything for them, and here I had them by luck. Also by luck, I could sell them.
Money is a big deal for someone like me.
For a long time I struggled. Another friend reminded me just how much, how I patched together multiple jobs, hustling while raising my son alone for a decade. It’s only been in the last two years that my income budged above the federal poverty line. In the not so distant past, the idea of shelling out a couple hundred dollars for concert tickets was unthinkable, a luxury I couldn’t dream about. But my wise friend told me: Sometimes it’s okay to have nice things, to go to a show.
It’s also okay to take the money and run. You out of anyone, he said kindly, can make that money last, stretch it, do good.
And he’s right.
I took the money. I treated one of my oldest friends to a nice dinner at a local restaurant. Later this summer, I’m going to New York to pick up my son from a visit with his dad. But the rest, I will save for a rainy day.
As an artist, it’s always raining.
Lately it seems like we have only storms. The news is full of stories of layoffs, editors fired, a whole imprint of a publisher gone: an imprint focused on diverse stories for young adults, like the book I am publishing next year. It’s a frightening time of book banning. Artists don’t have security, don’t have any guarantees.
Artists also don’t have health insurance. To get that, we have to have day jobs, second or third jobs, which can sometimes be inspiring but sometimes also suck the life and time out of us.
Artists don’t have regular paychecks, even for working the longest, hardest hours of our lives. I’ve learned to say my published books pay the bills, because they do, but they don’t pay all the bills. Or even most of them.
You deserve to get paid, my wise friend said. And the world doesn’t pay us for making art. Not enough, not even close. The majority of us, we have to save. We have to conserve.
We also have to be ready. We have to make the materials of our lives into a structure strong enough to support us.
So I didn’t see Taylor Swift. Not this time and maybe not ever. But I make my own show.