You Can't Pay the Mortgage with Applause

Calgary Fringe.....many moons ago

Or why exposure doesn't pay the electricity bill, a sandwich isn't a salary, and fifteen years of experience ought to be worth more than a plate of sausage rolls.

There's a peculiar little phrase that anyone working in the creative industries will have heard at some point in their career. It usually arrives wrapped in enthusiasm, accompanied by a generous helping of compliments, and delivered with the sort of excitement normally reserved for someone announcing they've discovered gold in their back garden.

"It'll be great exposure for you!"

Ah, exposure.

That magical currency of the entertainment industry.

Apparently, if I collect enough of it, I can take it down to the bank, hand it to the mortgage adviser, and watch as they joyfully wipe another month off my payments.

"What's that, Mr Lykan? You've been performing for free at a community festival? Splendid! We'll take three rounds of applause and a glowing Facebook comment for November's payment."

Sadly, I've yet to find a bank that operates on this particular financial model.

I've tried explaining to the electricity company that I received a standing ovation last weekend, but the miserable buggers still insist on being paid in actual money.

And therein lies one of the great frustrations of making a living as a professional storyteller.

People love what you do.

They just don't always appreciate that you need to be paid to do it.

The Wonderful World of Exposure

Now, before anyone starts sharpening their pitchforks, let me make something clear.

I love performing. I love storytelling. I love the wonderful, unpredictable business of standing in front of a group of strangers and attempting to transport them somewhere entirely different using nothing more than a voice, a story, and occasionally a rather questionable Scottish accent.

Actually, the accent is genuine. It's the rest of me that's questionable.

And I genuinely appreciate the organisers, volunteers, community groups, festivals, and heritage organisations who work tirelessly to bring events to life. I've met some extraordinary people over the years, many of whom are operating on budgets that would make a church mouse look financially irresponsible.

I understand tight budgets.

I understand fundraising.

I understand that sometimes the money simply isn't there.

What I struggle with is the assumption that because I enjoy what I do, I should somehow be delighted to do it for next to nothing.

There's a difference between someone approaching you and saying, "We'd love to have you, but unfortunately our budget is only this much. Is there anything we could work out?"

And someone enthusiastically declaring, "We can't really pay you, but think of the exposure!"

Exposure to whom, exactly?

The twelve people in the village hall?

Lovely people, I'm sure. Probably excellent bakers. Might even offer a decent cup of tea.

But unless one of them happens to own a national entertainment agency and is desperately searching for a large Scotsman with a head full of ghost stories, I'm not entirely convinced this particular exposure is going to transform my career.

I've been doing this professionally for over fifteen years.

I've performed internationally, entertained thousands, stood on festival stages, wandered through castles, terrified tourists in Edinburgh, and talked myself hoarse in more community halls than I care to remember.

At this point, I don't particularly need exposure.

I need someone to pay the bloody invoice.

The Iceberg Beneath the Kilt

One of the problems with being a performer is that people only ever see the finished product.

They see the hour on stage.

They see the laughter, the stories, the audience interaction, the confidence, the improvisation, and the occasional moment when I manage to look like I know precisely what I'm doing.

What they don't see is everything that came before it.

And believe me, there's a great deal of it.

I often think of a professional performance as an iceberg.

Above the water, there's a cheerful Scotsman telling stories, making people laugh, and generally behaving like a man who's escaped adult supervision.

Below the surface, however, there's an enormous mountain of work.

Research.

Reading.

Writing.

Rewriting.

Rehearsal.

More rewriting.

Building set lists, choosing stories, adjusting material to suit the audience, researching the location, understanding the history, and making sure the stories are appropriate for the people who will be listening.

Then there's the administrative side of things.

Emails. Contracts. Invoices. Scheduling. Travel arrangements. Accommodation. Insurance. Equipment. Marketing. Website maintenance. Social media. The endless business of running a business.

And that's before we even consider the creative tantrums.

Oh, there are tantrums.

Sometimes a story simply refuses to behave itself.

You can spend hours working on a piece, convinced you've discovered the perfect ending, only to realise during rehearsal that the entire thing has all the dramatic impact of a damp sock.

So you tear it apart and start again.

You pace around the room muttering to yourself like a deranged Victorian undertaker.

You practise different voices.

You question your life choices.

You consider returning to a sensible profession.

Perhaps banking.

At least the numbers don't demand emotional vulnerability.

Then, eventually, something clicks.

The story finds its rhythm. The words settle into place. You discover the moments where an audience might laugh, where they might fall silent, where you can allow a pause to stretch just long enough for the imagination to do its work.

And when you finally stand before an audience, all that preparation becomes invisible.

Which, of course, is exactly how it should be.

A good performance should feel effortless.

But effortless and easy are two entirely different things.

You're not paying me for the hour I spend telling the story. You're paying me for the fifteen years it took to learn how to tell it that way.

And for the countless hours spent making sure that particular hour is worth your time.

But We'll Feed You!

Ah yes.

The catering clause.

There are few phrases in the professional entertainment world that can inspire quite the same mixture of gratitude and quiet disbelief as:

"And of course, we'll provide lunch!"

Wonderful.

Lunch.

I do enjoy lunch.

I'm a large Scotsman. Food and I have maintained a very successful relationship for most of my life.

But somewhere along the line, we've developed this peculiar notion that feeding a performer is an additional form of payment.

Imagine applying the same logic elsewhere.

You phone a plumber.

"Hello there! We've got a pipe that's burst, and the kitchen's flooding. We need you here for eight hours, but unfortunately we can only offer you fifty dollars. We will, however, provide sandwiches."

Or perhaps a dentist.

"Now, I know you've spent years training to do this, but I was wondering if you could sort out these fillings for a bit of exposure? We've got some lovely biscuits in the waiting room."

I suspect the response would be colourful.

Yet somehow, when it comes to performers, the offer of a sandwich is occasionally presented as though it were a generous addition to an already magnificent financial arrangement.

Don't misunderstand me. I appreciate being fed, especially during long events.

It's a kindness, and a practical necessity when you're working all day.

But food isn't a fee.

It's what keeps the performer from collapsing face-first into the microphone halfway through the afternoon.

Four Hours Driving, Eight Hours Working, and $150

Here's a little scenario for you.

Imagine being approached to work at an event.

It's a full day. Eight hours of performance, hosting, audience engagement, or whatever particular combination of skills the organiser requires.

The venue is two hours away.

That's four hours of driving.

Twelve hours of your day committed before you even consider preparation, packing equipment, or the inevitable business of finding somewhere to park.

And the fee?

$150.

No travel expenses.

No accommodation.

But, naturally, lunch will be provided.

Now, I'm no mathematical genius. There's a reason I eventually abandoned the world of banking in favour of telling stories about dead people.

But even I can work this one out.

Twelve hours for $150 works out at $12.50 an hour.

That's before fuel.

Before vehicle wear and tear.

Before taxes.

Before the hours of preparation.

Before the administrative work.

And before accounting for the fifteen years of experience that apparently qualify me to earn less than I might make doing considerably less specialised work.

By the time I've filled the car with petrol, I might as well have stayed home, made myself a sandwich, and stood in front of the bathroom mirror applauding my own reflection.

At least the commute would have been shorter.

And yet, when you politely decline these offers, there's sometimes a sense of surprise.

As though you've turned down an extraordinary opportunity.

"But it's a whole day of work!"

Yes.

That's rather the problem.

The Curious Business of Being Polite

Perhaps the most frustrating part of all this is that you can't always say what you're actually thinking.

Professionalism is a terrible burden sometimes.

There are occasions when an email arrives, you read the proposed fee, and your first instinct is to respond with something that would make a Glasgow docker blush.

But you can't.

Because you're a professional.

You have a reputation.

You understand that people talk, communities overlap, and today's poorly funded organiser might become tomorrow's well-funded festival director.

So instead of typing:

"Are you having a bloody laugh?"

You write:

"Thank you so much for considering me. Unfortunately, given the travel requirements and the scope of the engagement, I'm unable to accommodate the proposed budget."

You read it back.

Very polite.

Very reasonable.

Not a single swear word.

You deserve a medal.

Possibly a sandwich.

And the truth is, most of the time I genuinely don't want to upset anyone. I know that many of these requests come from people who simply don't understand the economics of professional performance.

They're not necessarily trying to take advantage.

They just haven't considered what they're asking.

But occasionally, I do wish I could sit them down, pour them a cup of tea, and explain exactly how much work goes into what they're buying.

Preferably without my left eyebrow attempting to escape through the top of my head.

The Tour That Never Happened

There was one occasion, however, when my patience was stretched a wee bit further than usual.

I'd been booked to deliver a tour at a heritage site.

Everything had been arranged. The date was confirmed, the time agreed, and I'd prepared the material.

I turned up as requested.

The staff were there.

Everything was ready.

There was just one tiny problem.

No audience.

Now, this isn't entirely unheard of in the world of live performance. I've told stories to tiny audiences before, and frankly, some of them have been among my favourite experiences.

But this wasn't a case of poor ticket sales or unexpected bad weather.

Someone higher up the organisational food chain had decided to cancel the tour.

And had apparently forgotten the rather important step of telling anyone.

Not the staff.

Not the people preparing for the event.

And certainly not the large Scotsman who had turned up ready to work.

So there I was.

Ready, willing, and entirely unnecessary.

Three hours of my time disappeared into the great administrative void.

Eventually, the situation became clear, and I explained that I would still be invoicing for the booking.

This was apparently something of a surprise.

After all, the tour hadn't happened.

And this is where I came perilously close to abandoning my usual diplomacy.

I explained, as politely as I could manage, that the power company doesn't stop charging you for electricity simply because you've gone out to buy groceries.

The service is there.

The infrastructure is there.

The commitment has been made.

Whether you choose to use it is another matter entirely.

I had honoured my side of the arrangement.

I'd prepared.

I'd travelled.

I'd arrived.

I'd made myself available to deliver the service that had been booked.

The fact that someone had failed to communicate a cancellation didn't magically return those three hours to my life.

Nor did it pay for the time I'd already committed.

I still sent the invoice.

And do you know what?

I felt positively scandalous.

There I was, demanding payment for a professional commitment I'd fulfilled, as though I'd just robbed the Crown Jewels and made off with the Queen's favourite corgi.

That was probably one of the rudest moments of my professional career.

Which, when you think about it, is rather ridiculous.

My great act of rebellion was politely requesting to be paid for my time.

Not exactly the stuff of Scottish legend.

Robert the Bruce had Bannockburn.

William Wallace had Stirling Bridge.

I had an invoice and a mildly irritated email.

Still, we all fight our battles.

I Could Be a Very Busy Man

Here's the strange thing.

I could probably fill my calendar with work if I accepted every offer that came my way.

I'd be travelling constantly.

Performing at festivals, community events, heritage sites, schools, and gatherings.

I'd have photographs galore.

My social media would be bursting with pictures of me standing beside banners, shaking hands, and looking delighted to be there.

I'd be able to tell everyone how wonderfully busy I was.

And I'd probably be skint.

Because there's a difference between being busy and making a living.

It's a lesson that took me longer than I'd care to admit.

When you're starting out, every booking feels like a victory.

Someone wants you!

Someone believes you're worth putting in front of an audience!

Someone has actually offered you money to do the thing you love!

Even if that money barely covers the petrol.

And in those early years, there's genuine value in taking opportunities that help you learn, build experience, make connections, and discover what sort of performer you want to become.

I certainly did.

I've performed in all sorts of places, under all sorts of circumstances, for fees that would barely buy a decent pair of socks.

Some of those experiences were wonderful.

Some were educational.

And some taught me never to agree to anything without getting the details in writing.

But there comes a point when you have to recognise that constantly accepting poorly paid work doesn't build a sustainable career.

It builds an exhausting hobby.

One where you spend a great deal of time working for other people's enjoyment while quietly wondering how you're going to pay your own bills.

And that isn't why I spent fifteen years learning this craft.

The Price of a Story

One thing I wish more people understood is that professional storytelling isn't simply a matter of standing up and remembering a few words.

It's a skill.

A craft.

A peculiar combination of research, performance, communication, improvisation, psychology, timing, and the ability to read a room full of strangers.

When I deliver a historical tour, I'm not simply reciting a collection of dates and names.

I'm trying to bring the past to life.

When I host a festival, I'm not merely announcing the next act.

I'm maintaining energy, connecting audiences, managing unexpected changes, filling awkward gaps, and occasionally preventing the whole thing from descending into glorious chaos.

When I deliver a workshop, I'm not simply standing in front of a group and talking for an hour.

I'm drawing upon years of experience, adapting to the people in the room, and attempting to give them something genuinely useful to take away.

And when I tell a story, I'm not simply repeating words I've memorised.

I'm building something between myself and the audience.

A moment.

A connection.

Something that exists only because we're all there together.

That's what you're paying for.

Not simply my time.

But what I can do with it.

And yes, sometimes that means I charge more than someone expected.

Not because I think I'm terribly important.

Good grief, I've spent a significant portion of my career wearing a kilt and telling stories about ghosts, goblins, murderers, and men who made spectacularly poor life choices.

I'm hardly in a position to take myself too seriously.

But I do take my work seriously.

There's a difference.

Not Every Opportunity Needs to Make Money

Now, before I sound like a mercenary Highlander roaming the countryside demanding tribute in exchange for entertainment, there's another side to this.

I do sometimes work for reduced fees.

Occasionally, I'll even donate my time.

There are causes I believe in, communities I want to support, and projects that matter to me personally.

Sometimes a small event can lead to wonderful connections, unexpected opportunities, or simply a genuinely rewarding experience.

And sometimes I just want to help.

That's my choice.

It's a decision I make based on the circumstances, the people involved, and what I can reasonably afford to give.

The important word there is choice.

There's a world of difference between choosing to support something and being expected to subsidise it.

If I decide to donate a performance to a worthy cause, that's a gift.

If someone assumes I should work for free because I'll enjoy myself, that's something else entirely.

And I rather suspect the same principle applies to photographers, musicians, artists, writers, actors, craftspeople, and just about anyone who's ever been told that their talent would make a wonderful contribution to an event's atmosphere.

We all love what we do.

That's often why we've spent years learning to do it.

But passion doesn't make the work free.

If anything, it's the reason we've invested so much of ourselves in it.

A Wee Word to Event Organisers

If you're reading this as someone who organises events, please don't think I'm suggesting that every performer expects a king's ransom.

We don't.

Well, some might.

Personally, I'd settle for a modest castle and a lifetime supply of decent tea.

But most of us simply want to be treated fairly.

If your budget is limited, tell us.

If you're working with a small community organisation, explain the circumstances.

If you're unsure what something should cost, ask.

You might be surprised at how flexible performers can be when approached with honesty and respect.

Perhaps there's a shorter performance that would fit your budget.

Perhaps the travel could be shared with another booking.

Perhaps we can develop something that works for both parties.

I've always believed that a good conversation can solve an awful lot of problems.

What doesn't help is treating the fee as an afterthought.

Or assuming that because a performer appears to be enjoying themselves, the work somehow becomes less valuable.

And please, for the love of all that's holy, don't present a sandwich as though it's a generous pension scheme.

I'll happily eat the sandwich.

I'll probably enjoy it.

But I'll still need paying.

The Applause Is Wonderful. The Invoice Matters Too.

I sometimes wonder whether part of the problem is that performers are victims of their own success.

We work incredibly hard to make what we do look natural.

We want audiences to forget about the preparation, the rehearsals, the nerves, the research, and the countless little decisions that shape a performance.

We want them to be swept away.

To laugh.

To listen.

To feel something.

And when it works, when the audience is with you and the room comes alive, there's no feeling quite like it.

That's the magic of live performance.

It's why I keep doing it.

It's why, after fifteen years, I still get excited when a new story starts taking shape.

It's why I'll happily spend hours buried in old books, chasing some obscure historical detail that might eventually become a thirty-second moment in a performance.

And it's why, despite the frustrations, the long drives, the questionable accommodation, the administrative headaches, and the occasional organiser who seems to believe exposure is a recognised Canadian currency, I still love this peculiar profession.

But loving your work shouldn't mean being expected to give it away.

I have bills.

I have responsibilities.

I have a life beyond the stage.

And like everyone else, I need to make a living.

There are days when I wonder if I should simply accept every offer, fill the calendar, and enjoy the satisfaction of being constantly in demand.

But then I remember something important.

Being wanted isn't quite the same as being valued.

And perhaps that's the real heart of this whole business.

I don't need every organiser to have an enormous budget.

I don't need every booking to be a financial triumph.

I certainly don't expect everyone to understand the strange, chaotic world of professional storytelling.

But I do hope they'll recognise that what happens on stage is only the smallest visible part of a much larger commitment.

A commitment built over years.

Through successes, failures, embarrassing moments, endless practice, and more than a few occasions when I've questioned whether becoming a professional storyteller was the wisest career decision.

And when the performance is finished, when the audience has gone home and the applause has faded, there's still the long drive back.

The equipment to unpack.

The emails waiting to be answered.

The next story to research.

The next event to prepare.

And, somewhere in the pile of post waiting by the door, another bill.

So by all means, applaud.

Laugh loudly.

Tell your friends.

Leave a lovely review.

Recommend me to everyone you know.

I genuinely appreciate every bit of it.

But when it comes to booking a professional storyteller, please remember that applause is the reward for a job well done.

Payment is what allows us to keep doing the job in the first place.

And if you really want to offer me exposure, make sure it's not the sort that comes from standing outside in a Scottish winter.

I've had quite enough of that already.

I'm Calum Lykan, a Scottish storyteller, event host and voice artist with over fifteen years of experience performing internationally. I believe in the power of a good story, the importance of human connection, and the radical notion that creative professionals should be able to afford their electricity bills.

Have stories, will travel. Preferably with expenses covered.

www.calumlykanstorytelling.com