I’m 40, successful and skint. This is what a career in TV has cost me

“Be a plumber.” That was the blunt advice from a WhatsApp group of TV mates when I asked what wisdom they’d impart to the next generation of creatives hoping to forge a career in telly. They’d read the column I’d written for this newspaper about how, at 40, I was visibly successful, yet had no pension and was living hand to mouth. It struck a nerve across the creative industries. Musicians, actors, costume designers, photographers and theatre directors got in touch to say they were in exactly the same boat. How had so many of us spent decades doing jobs we loved, only to have next to nothing to show for it financially? Two things became clear. Firstly, the creative industries are screwed. Secondly, much like the NHS, the sector runs on the goodwill of slightly unhinged people who love their jobs so much they’ll put up with almost anything. I’m describing myself and many of my peers. We have terrible boundaries, our jobs have become our identities and however often the industry chews us up and spits us out, we come back for more. But at what cost? The more successful I’ve become professionally, the less secure I’ve become financially. I entered television relatively late at 27, back in 2013, when there was plenty of work. I was an assistant producer with disposable income. At 40, I was an award-winning director frying chips to pay the bills. Recently, over dinner, a TV mate and I concluded that having no pension was our financial “ground zero” – things had to be different. Yet, a year after writing an entire article about having no pension, I still haven’t started one. You’d think publicly confessing my financial incompetence would spur me into action. But there’s one small problem: you need money to put into a pension.I wish I’d treated my finances with the same seriousness as my career. I obsessed over the next commission, the next credit and the next opportunity, spending countless hours developing ideas for free, without giving hardly any thought to my financial future. I wish I’d built a safety net. Because being good at your job doesn’t mean you’ll always have one. I know talented people who’ve retrained or become Amazon drivers because they couldn’t afford to continue. What does that mean for working-class creatives? If established professionals are struggling, imagine breaking in without family money. If only those who can weather the instability remain, we’ll end up with the same people making the same programmes, telling the same stories. At what point does a creative career become a luxury? Broadcasters are under pressure, budgets are shrinking and the appetite for risk is shrinking with them. Established names win out while freelancers fight over scraps. Yet, we consume more content than ever. Where is the money going, and why are the people making it struggling? Financial insecurity is only half the story. The other half is the culture around creative work. We’re constantly reminded how lucky we are to do jobs we love. Somewhere along the way, we accepted that passion meant tolerating unpaid overtime, working weekends, cancelling plans and the expectation we’d always be available. It’s like being on call as a doctor, except we’re not saving lives. Recently, I worked with two work experience students. One clocked off at precisely 6.02pm, never to be heard from again after that sacred hour. The other replied quickly whenever I messaged, even while working on another production. Guess who made the bigger impression? I instinctively rewarded the behaviour that’s left my generation exhausted and unable to switch off. The uncomfortable truth is that those of us in this industry have helped perpetuate this culture ourselves. But what’s the alternative? As a woman of colour in telly, I’ve always had to work twice as hard for half the recognition. That’s basic POC maths. And the sums have never been in my favour. I gave the work experience student the advice I wish I’d had at her age: you’ll need skin as thick as a crocodile’s; rejection will become your best friend; don’t confuse being indispensable with being exploited; have several ways of earning a living; no job is beneath you; shadow people, make yourself useful, build relationships and maintain them, your job is NOT a personality trait. And for God’s sake, start a pension. You’d better love this job, because you’re certainly not doing it for the money. Here’s my number. Call me anytime. Germany offers social insurance for eligible self-employed artists; France provides unemployment protection between contracts for qualifying arts workers. Why aren’t we discussing financial protection for Britain’s creative workforce? After 13 years in TV, what do I have to show for it? Professionally, quite a lot. Lifelong friends, a window into worlds I’d never otherwise have experienced, and a career that’s rarely been dull. Financially? Let’s review the accounts. Savings: none. This year’s earnings: pretty much earmarked for the taxman. Retirement plan: sell my flat and hope the proceeds see me through. I don’t regret choosing this career. I regret believing that enjoying my job meant I shouldn’t expect financial security in return. And that’s the industry’s greatest trick: convincing us that doing what we love should be payment enough.