WHERE IS THE MONEY?

Being a Black working-class creative, building from the ground up, and learning how to create opportunities when nobody is coming to save you.

Let's talk about money.

Not the glamorous kind.

Not the “six-figure creative entrepreneur” kind.

Not the beautifully designed Instagram graphic telling you to monetise your passion.

I'm talking about the money you need to actually make the work.

The money for the train.

The money for the rehearsal room.

The money for the photographer.

The money for the website.

The money for the venue.

The money for the designer.

The money to register the company.

The money to print the flyers.

The money to pay the people helping you.

The money to eat while you're doing all of this.

Where is it supposed to come from?

Because being a creative is expensive.

And being a creative without money is a completely different experience.

THE BROKE LIFE

There is a version of the creative journey that we don't talk about enough.

The bit before the grant.

Before the commission.

Before the investor.

Before the big producer comes along.

Before somebody says, “We've been looking for someone exactly like you.”

The bit where you're sitting at home with an idea and thinking:

Okay. But how am I actually going to make this happen?

You have the vision.

You have the talent.

You have the idea.

You might even have the audience.

But you don't necessarily have the money.

And sometimes that gap can make you question yourself.

Maybe I'm not ready.

Maybe I need more experience.

Maybe I need to wait.

Maybe someone else is better placed to do this.

But sometimes the problem isn't that you're not ready.

Sometimes you simply don't have the resources.

And those are two very different things.

Research into the creative industries reflects how significant those financial barriers can be. Creative Access found that financial pressures affect people's ability to apply for and accept creative work, with commuting and living costs among the barriers reported.

I've felt the question underneath all of that:

How do you build something when you don't have anything to build it with?

WHEN YOU DON'T HAVE FAMILY MONEY

I think there is another conversation underneath this one.

Class.

Because sometimes we talk about “networking” as though everyone starts with the same network.

They don't.

Some people grow up around lawyers, producers, directors, executives, investors and people who already understand how the industry works.

They know who to call.

They know what a development deal looks like.

They know how to ask for money.

They know someone who knows someone.

And then there are those of us who are figuring it out as we go.

Creative Access research has found that working-class people remain significantly underrepresented in creative careers, with respondents also identifying networks and financial resources as barriers to access and progression.

So when I talk about being a Black working-class creative, I'm not saying I have no advantages.

I'm saying I understand what it feels like to have an idea and realise that having the idea isn't the expensive part.

Making it real is.

SO YOU BUILD WITH YOUR PEOPLE

And this is where community comes in.

Because if you don't have inherited resources, sometimes what you have is people.

Your friend who designs.

The photographer who believes in what you're doing.

The filmmaker who says, “Yeah, let's shoot it.”

The actor who will come into the room.

The producer who shares the contact.

The person who sends you the funding opportunity.

The person who says:

“Have you spoken to this person?”

Community can become infrastructure.

And I've learned not to underestimate that.

But I also don't want to romanticise it.

Because there is a difference between community building and expecting your friends to work for free forever.

People need to eat.

People need to pay rent.

People deserve to be compensated for their creativity.

So for me, the goal isn't to build a creative life where everyone is permanently doing favours for everyone else.

It's to build something where we can eventually pay each other properly.

That is the dream.

Not:

“We all helped each other for free.”

But:

“We helped each other get started — and now we're creating enough value to bring each other with us.”

CREATING OPPORTUNITIES

I've started to realise that sometimes waiting for an opportunity is the least useful thing I can do.

So I create one.

If I want to tell a story, I can develop it.

If I want to produce something, I can start putting the pieces together.

If I want to create a platform, I can build the first version.

If I want to see a certain kind of conversation happening, I can start the conversation.

That doesn't mean I don't want funding.

I absolutely want funding.

I want commissions.

I want investment.

I want people with money to recognise good ideas and put money behind them.

I want creatives to be properly paid.

But I don't want my ability to create to depend entirely on someone else deciding that my idea is worth funding.

Sometimes you have to make the first move.

THE COMMUNITY IS PART OF THE BUSINESS

This is something I'm learning as I build.

Community isn't just an audience.

Community can be collaborators.

It can be readers.

It can be artists.

It can be people who open doors.

It can be people who share your work.

It can be people who say, “I know someone you should speak to.”

It can be the first ten people who believe in something before the first hundred arrive.

And when you're building something from scratch, those relationships matter.

But I think we also have to be intentional about turning community into opportunity.

Not just:

“Come support my thing.”

But:

“How can we build something together?”

How can the photographer get work?

How can the designer get work?

How can the filmmaker get work?

How can the writer get paid?

How can the venue benefit?

How can the audience get something meaningful?

How can the project create more opportunities than the one it started with?

That's the kind of ecosystem I want to build.

I'M NOT WAITING TO BE DISCOVERED

Maybe that's the biggest shift happening in me.

I used to think opportunity was something that happened to you.

Someone discovers you.

Someone casts you.

Someone commissions you.

Someone funds you.

Someone invites you into the room.

And yes, those things still matter.

But I'm beginning to understand that I can also build the room.

I can invite people in.

I can create the project.

I can start the conversation.

I can make the platform.

I can tell the story.

I can knock on the door.

And if there isn't a door?

Maybe I build one.

BUT I'M STILL ASKING: WHERE IS THE MONEY?

Let's not pretend determination pays the rent.

It doesn't.

Passion doesn't pay invoices.

Exposure doesn't pay photographers.

“Great opportunity” doesn't automatically pay artists.

And being told that a project is “important” doesn't make it financially sustainable.

We need to be able to talk about money in creative spaces without feeling embarrassed.

How much does it cost?

Who is paying?

Who is being paid?

What is the budget?

Where is the funding?

How do we make this sustainable?

Those aren't uncreative questions.

They're part of building a creative life.

Because I don't just want to make things.

I want to build something that can last.

BUILDING FROM WHAT I HAVE

Maybe that's what this chapter is really about.

Not pretending I have more resources than I do.

Not being ashamed that I'm still figuring out the money.

Not waiting until everything is perfect.

Using what I have.

The ideas.

The relationships.

The skills.

The community.

The experience.

The internet.

The room.

The camera.

The laptop.

The conversation.

The audacity.

And starting there.

Because maybe being a Black working-class creative means I've had to become particularly good at figuring things out.

Maybe that's frustrating.

Maybe it's exhausting.

Sometimes it absolutely is.

But there is also something powerful about knowing that I can create something from almost nothing.

And then, when the money comes, I want to use it differently.

I want to pay people.

I want to commission people.

I want to open doors.

I want to create opportunities.

I want the person coming behind me to have a slightly easier journey.

Because I don't want to just make it out.

I want to build something worth bringing people into.

And maybe that's the real work.

Not waiting for somebody to save us.

Creating enough opportunity that we can start saving each other.