In high school, I worked at an unimaginably greasy spoon, The Donut Kastle, with my friend Cassie, and it remains one of my favorite ever jobs. We sold donuts, talked to regulars and fielded their (regular) complaints, cleaned (inasmuch as that was possible), glazed and dipped donuts, rolled out donuts, restocked donuts, listened to Death Cab for Cutie and the Jayhawks, and once, when we ran out of glazed and told our boss, heard our boss say, “If I make more, they’ll just sell out again.” So he didn’t.
I ate a lot of donuts. And whatever extras were left at the end of the shift, we were welcome to—so I brought them to theater practices and my then-boyfriend and my friends who didn’t wake up early enough to visit me on my shift. (Our boss took the rest to the homeless, because he may have been a god-awful businessman, but he was an excellent baker and a good person.) The tip money was negligible, and several weekends, Cassie and I spent it buying cheesy tots and slushies at the Sonic next-door.
Before a redesign, we also received the best shirts ever. Despite the pit stains only a teenager in a hell kitchen could create, I still have mine and wear it with no small amount of pride: “I AM A DONUT PERSON” it proclaims, rightly, above a stick figure drawing of donuts wearing crowns and capes on a stick figure castle.
Even after having to give up gluten (shudder), I remain a donut person. (Finding a gluten-free blueberry donut is what led me to work at a bakery in Knoxville. I follow the donuts.)
In a discussion of judgment of how artists make their money or pay for their art in Amanda Palmer’s book The Art of Asking, Palmer brings up Henry David Thoreau. She notes that some people call Thoreau a poser—he isn’t a true man of the wild; he got land from a friend, was close to town, had regular dinners with his friend Ralph Waldo Emerson, and every Sunday, had the audacity to accept baked goods from his mom and sister, including the occasional unforgivable, totally decadent donut. This seems like the kind of gossip that floats along in art school (“She’s only able to do that because her spouse supports her/Her mom has a trust fund/She knows someone/That opportunity was only open to [insert often racist comment here]” and so on), typically out of envy, to negate someone’s work by saying they didn’t do it all on her own.
But who among us has done it all on her own?
Palmer talks about DIY versus “maximal DIY,” saying true DIY is doing truly everything on your own—no help, no donations, no phone calls, please. True DIY, she says, requires ingenuity. “Maximal DIY,” however, is asking for help and accepting it. She argues this requires ingenuity (knowing how to ask and what to ask for, plus balancing confidence with gratitude) and trust. (You’re not totally in control. You’re dependent on other people.)
Maximalist DIY-ers take the donuts.
Palmer’s point? If Thoreau had been saving to buy land, hunting for food, making meals from scratch, and starving, chances are he wouldn’t have been writing Walden … or anything else for that matter. Whether Thoreau fails some sort of grit test because he ate some donuts and went into town, he still wrote one of the important pieces of American literature of the 19th century.
If someone offers you donuts, in the words of Palmer: “Take the f*cking donuts.” If you can afford to take time off to write your novel, take it. If your friend offers to give you studio space to record your album, take it. If a pal Venmos you money for gas for your tour or for refills of paints, say thank you, and take it.
For a long time, I’ve tried to be a true DIY-er, which, frankly, is a path I respect but, for me, has been a lonely road. That changed with the publication of my book, which depended on an excellent designer, a fabulous editor, and a publisher I would work with again without question. It continued to change as I asked friends if they’d help me with my book tour—and, remarkably, they did, offering spaces to read, audiences to read to, classes to teach, couches and air mattresses and once a real bed to sleep on, their company when I was passing through, meals, interviews, sharing reviews of my book—you name it.
Maximal DIY is the way to go, IMO. And I did not come by that opinion easily. (Us hard-heads never do, unless we are bullshitting in the middle of a debate over drinks.)
There’s no glory in refusing a donut. Or in refusing gifts, which I tried to do several times in the publication process for my book Rodeo in Reverse.
I’ve turned down some pretty good grub in the past because I didn’t have the humility to eat—avoided opportunities or publications for fear of nepotism, not accepting invitations because people are “just being nice” (uhhh, let people be nice to you?), been resentful of my husband because his career lets me have the (lower paying) career I want (and then not got much writing done because of handwringing over my lack of financial contribution), and I could go on.
But you know what? I love donuts. Life is hard enough without refusing its most perfect circular treats. I want a t-shirt with Thoreau’s face on it that says “Take the donuts” (because I am too afraid to wear anything with the F-word on it in public).
High-school me knew what was up: I AM A DONUT PERSON.
What donuts can you take to get some creative work done?
What’s your favorite donut shop where you live?
Let me know in the comments below, or email me at Lindsey@LDAlexander.com.
