I’ve had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for three meals in a row now, and the thing is, I don’t even really mind. I mean, I could cook something, or like, go to the grocery store, but I’m pretty comfortable with my pb&j. Maybe I’ll be able to make some kind of record.
Oh, the dreams of a poor writer.
Here’s the thing. We want to be writers, but it’s hard. Take a look at craigslist under writing jobs and you’ll see what I mean. Don’t get me wrong, there are tons of cool writing jobs, but there’s usually one little caveat, usually at the end of the job description, in small font, sometimes italicized to lessen the blow: unpaid. Damn. Oh well. Like I said, I don’t actually mind the pb&j lifestyle.
I moved to New York not too long ago, and, after attempting to buy a coffee and having a slight breakdown at the cost, I’ve started picking up pennies. Not for good luck, but like, if I save up enough I might be able to buy a coffee. By the time I’m fifty. They say you need to have goals, well, there’s one. By the time I’m fifty, I want to buy a coffee with money I find on the street.
Recently, us poor writers were having lunch and talking about parking costs in NYC (problem solved when you don’t have a car!) and it led to much wailing and moaning and rhetorical questions of “Why are we here?” Most cities I want to explore horizontally. You know, walk, ride, drive places. New York makes me want to explore it vertically, in terms of income level. Of course, that’s more likely going to happen for the currently poor lawyers, accountants, and doctors (is there a poor doctors blog, do you think?) who will be procuring jobs and moving up in the world. Us writers might be stuck down here forever. (Except, JK Rowling! David Sedaris! Ah, it’s possible!)
Oh, well. I think I’ll go have lunch. Something with peanut butter.