I am nowhere near rich, but I have typically made a solid middle- or even, at times, upper-middle-class income, which is about all a writer can expect, even a writer who also teaches and lectures and writes television scripts, as I do. You wouldn’t even know it to look at my tax return. I have had a passably good career as a writer-five books, hundreds of articles published, a number of awards and fellowships, and a small (very small) but respectable reputation. Nor would you know it to look at my résumé.
I like to think I appear reasonably prosperous. You wouldn’t know any of that to look at me. And I know what it is like to have to borrow money from my adult daughters because my wife and I ran out of heating oil. I know what it is like to have to tell my daughter that I didn’t know if I would be able to pay for her wedding it all depended on whether something good happened. I know what it is like to dread going to the mailbox, because there will always be new bills to pay but seldom a check with which to pay them. I know what it is like to be down to my last $5-literally-while I wait for a paycheck to arrive, and I know what it is like to subsist for days on a diet of eggs. I know what it is like to have liens slapped on me and to have my bank account levied by creditors.
I know what it is like to have to swallow my pride and constantly dun people to pay me so that I can pay others. I know what it is like to have to juggle creditors to make it through a week.
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