Written by: Mack Moyer
I’m thirty-one years old. When I decided to dedicate my life to writing, I imagined that by my early-thirties I’d be living in a van, selling short stories for beer money.
That’s not to say I wanted to be a transient type, I just thought it would probably happen.
Now that I’m thoroughly not homeless, I’ve come to a stunning conclusion.
I don’t have that option.
Writers can’t be vagabonds anymore, even if we want to. It’s hard to do blog tours when you’re sleeping in an abandoned ice cream truck and cardboard boxes rarely have internet connections.
Sure, you can write in the car you’re sleeping in on a typewriter, or scrawl your novel by hand on napkins you stole from Burger King, but if we’re talking about having your work consumed, slightly appreciated, and maybe even get compensated for it, you just can’t do…
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