Interview #127: How Jeannie Vanasco Makes Money Writing
In this interview, Jeannie explains how winning the academic tenure track lottery provides the financial stability required to write deeply vulnerable memoirs.
Jeannie Vanasco is the author of A Silent Treatment and an associate professor of English at Towson University. While her critically acclaimed memoirs have been named best books of the year by NPR and TIME she’s incredibly honest about the financial realities of literary publishing. Rather than chasing massive advances she relies on her academic salary to completely subsidize her writing career which allows her to publish deeply vulnerable work without worrying about commercial viability.
In this interview Jeannie explains why she happily accepted a $2,500 advance from an indie press and why she continues to stay fiercely loyal to Tin House for her fourth book. She breaks down the exact payout for narrating her own audiobook and reveals the strategic reason she finally hired a literary agent years after securing her publishing deals. If you want to learn how to leverage a stable day job to protect your absolute creative freedom this one’s for you.
What you do: Memoirist, Associate Professor of English at Towson University.
Years writing professionally: 20 years.
Earnings range: $3k–$30k from just writing.
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Jeannie, between your salary as an associate professor of English at Towson University and your book advances from Tin House, your income comes from a couple of different places. When you look at your finances over a typical year, how do those different streams actually break down to support your life?
Oh, some years I spend more money on books than I make from my books. My writing finances seem glitchy to TurboTax. Its cartoon guide says things like, “Are you sure you didn’t make a mistake back there?” and “Let’s just confirm the numbers are right.” Then, right before I file, it turns into Don Vito Corleone, offering “protection.” And, because math makes me nervous, I pay.
I rely on my teaching salary to support me. I won the tenure-track lottery. The stability keeps me sane, which keeps me writing. Sometimes, to make extra money, I give talks and readings at other colleges, teach classes independently and through writing organizations, such as the McCormick Writing Center, and do manuscript consultations.
Might I get by on less? Sure. In my twenties, in New York, I freelanced for a few years, making roughly $12k annually. Some people probably thought I had a trust fund. But I cut my own hair, frequented bank lobbies for free coffee, picked out furniture on trash day in rich neighborhoods, and paid $480 in rent. I kept costs low because I wanted to write for publications I loved, and those publications couldn’t pay much. That hasn’t changed, but my life situation has.
I now help support some family members. And my salary has spoiled me. Turns out I like professional haircuts and good coffee and new, ergonomically designed furniture. The more money you make, the more you think you need to make. I want enough, and I have enough. I mean, my god, my last book launch was at a place known for its kombucha.
You mentioned that stability keeps you sane and keeps you writing. I’m curious how having that tenure-track safety net actually impacts the type of books you pitch. Does knowing the bills are covered give you the freedom to write more challenging or vulnerable memoirs without worrying about whether they are commercial?
That’s a really good question. To answer it, I should first offer some personal context: my family’s annual income, when I was growing up, came to, at most, $20k, yet I never would have described us as poor. My parents’ resourcefulness shaped my approach to life and art-making.
Long before I had the tenure-track job, I was writing The Glass Eye without considering its commercial viability. After an agent heard me read from it, she asked if she could read the manuscript in its current form. I sent her pages, and a day later she invited me to a very fancy restaurant in Manhattan. I figured she’d offer representation. Instead, she told me, “I can’t sell it how it’s currently written.” She suggested I turn the memoir into a general nonfiction book about the intersection of grief and mental illness. I said I didn’t want to do that, and she said to contact her if I changed my mind.
Maybe a week later, another agent emailed me. She’d read my essays in The Believer. She asked if I had a book manuscript. I sent her pages, and she invited me to a coffee shop. I thought, At least she’s not sending mixed signals. But she offered representation. I signed with her, and before we went out for submission, she asked for my list of dream publishers. I told her, Tin House and McSweeney’s. She sent the manuscript to FSG, Norton, Tin House, McSweeney’s, and I forget where else.
We heard from Masie at Tin House within the week. Masie and I clicked immediately. She understood what I was trying to do artistically. I asked my agent to pull the manuscript from everywhere else. She wanted to give it another week, so I emailed Masie—I never told my agent this—and asked her not to interpret my silence as a lack of interest. Masie said she completely understood. She used to be an agent.
Tin House offered $2,500. But because I can be so impatient, I told my agent not to waste the other editors’ time. I said to just pull it from wherever it still was.
When The Glass Eye sold, I was a visiting assistant professor on a one-year contract. I didn’t know if I’d have a university job the following year. But having The Glass Eye under contract helped me get my tenure-track job. So, because of my writing career, I have my academic career. And because of my academic career, I can tolerate difficult stretches of not writing.
Had I not gotten the tenure-track job, I would have returned to living very simply. Not having a back-up plan—that was a risk, for sure. And the older I get, the more risk-averse I am. I need to make money, but I don’t need to make a lot of money. Money is important, but if you’re always chasing after more of it, you’re never going to have enough.