The Matter of Money

I consider myself a lucky person. In the mid-2020s, amid the great upheavals in my industry, I am able to carve out a middle-class living as a writer. I can pay my rent in New York City. I don’t worry much about grocery prices. I can travel when I want to, and I can dispense extra cash into a savings account. My life is adequately bourgeoise. I don’t mind this at all; there’s a writer’s cult built around precarity that I believe, for the most part, is a bit silly. Those who glamorize precarity haven’t lived that way themselves. It’s easier, on the balance, to create art when one isn’t starving or desperately staving off eviction.