Yesterday, I had my monthly meeting with some of my author friends. We get together once a month to critique each other’s work, talk about the industry, talk about where we’re at, and all that good stuff.

I wanted to share a little bit about what we talked about, because I think it might be helpful.

Here’s the takeaway right up front:

Would you regret having done the work?

That’s the question.

As a writer, a creator, an artist—whatever term you want to use to define yourself—you need to ask: Would I regret doing the work if it didn’t pay off the way I hoped?

Now, if your answer is, “Well, yeah, if I didn’t make any money,” okay. Number one, that is a fair answer. That is a good answer. I’m glad you’re being honest.

But if that’s your only metric of success, then why? Why do you want to keep doing it?

As we were talking, the four of us—professional authors, all with decent careers behind us—we realized we’ve all had periods where we made good money. There were times when we were getting flown around the country, even overseas, to do book talks and school visits and conferences and conventions and all that kind of thing. And yes, it’s great.

One of my author friends, when I asked, “What was your favorite part of the whole process—from book one to book five?” said it was the travel. Being invited to events. Meeting so many people. Feeling like their career was on this upward trajectory.

And I said, yes. I remember that feeling. It was a great feeling.

But would you still do the work if none of that happened?

I think for all of us, the answer was yes. Because we still love writing.

One of my other friends had a mentor—a published author and, I think, professor—who very sadly recently passed away. The report from his wife was that he wrote up until literally his dying day, because he couldn’t not write.

That’s where I fall.

I don’t know where you fall, and I don’t care where you fall (I mean that in the most positive way possible), but I do want you to think about it. Where do you fall on that spectrum?

Because if you’re in the business just to turn a buck, that’s fine. I completely, 100% endorse and support that. That is a totally legitimate desire. I certainly want to make money. I have a specific dollar amount I want to make every month, on average. That would be great. I’d be thrilled to make that amount of money.

And it’s not even a lot, really. In the grand scheme of things, it’s not a lot of money.

I’m not there yet. Okay. But I’m absolutely working for it.

Still, if I knew for certain that the money was going to end completely—if there were never another opportunity to make money writing books—I’d still write. I’d write something.

There’s a possibility I’d shift the format I worked in. Maybe I’d move more into screenplays, or comic books, or stage plays again. I don’t know. There are any number of different ways to tell a story, right? The container changes, but story remains the same.

So maybe I’d find a different container.

But I would still write.

And honestly, even after saying all that, I’d probably still write novels. That’s where I’m most at home. That’s what I did for twenty years before I ever got an agent, much less sold a novel or licensed one to Random House.

So why would I stop? It brings me joy.

That was really the heart of the conversation the four of us had. Yes, we expect to be paid for our work. One hundred percent. There is nothing wrong with that. But we’d also keep doing it regardless. And we’d continue to try to get it in front of people.

And one more point on that note:

Getting your work in front of people does not necessarily equate to earning money.

Because I can tell you from personal experience—both mine and people close to me—you can make a ton of money and not be truly seen by a human soul. You can make zero dollars and be seen by hundreds or thousands of people.

Sometimes those things are connected.

Frequently, they’re not.

So decide what your metric for success is going to be.

There’s a project I was just talking about with one of my artist friends that I really, really want to do. And I’m not sure I can technically afford what they’re asking, even though they’re worth it. So I’m going to have to sit down with my budget and all my money—what little I have—and figure out how to make it work.

Because at the end of the day, I want this project on my shelf.

Whether anybody ever buys a copy or not, I want it on my shelf.

And I’ve got a whole bunch of books and story ideas and format ideas that I want to have on my shelf because I made them. Nothing’s going to stop me from doing that.

And we live in a world right now where there is almost no reason not to do it. The tools are available. The vast majority of them are available for free. If there’s a story you’ve got to get out, then get it out.

Whether you ever make a dime or not.

That’s just me. That’s my metric.

I hope I make some money with this project. I’m going to do it anyway.

Years ago, I ran a mixed-use arts venue for three years. We invested well over $15,000 just to get it open and mount the first play, which was Fahrenheit 451. For the first two years, my wife and I subsidized that company. We just kept putting money and money and money into it until the third year, when we finally started breaking even.

And even then, it wasn’t a ton. I think our rent was either $3,000 or $5,000 a month—I honestly can’t remember. But we had to make that every month just to pay the bills. And when we didn’t, it fell to us to make up the difference and keep spending money to mount the plays and keep everything going.

I don’t regret a minute of it.

Not one minute do I regret Chyro Arts Venue back in Scottsdale. It was awesome. It was so awesome.

And it’s not something I’d necessarily put on my résumé. It’s something I get to take with me to the grave.

I did that. I did it with people I really loved.

Totally worth it.

So decide on your metric. You’re the only one who can do that.

Don’t listen to your mom. Don’t listen to your bro. Don’t listen to your professor. Take their advice. Assimilate it. But you make the decision.

Why are you doing this?

And what constitutes success for you?

Because for me, I’m probably going to spend a bunch of money on this book project, and at the end of it, it may turn out that I paid mid-four figures for one coffee table book that I get to keep for the rest of my life.

Totally worth it.

Keep doing your thing.