Back just before my husband and I bought our first house, I was ramping up for a career writing fiction. But then I read a story in the New Yorker about this really talented writer who was living in poverty despite critical praise for his books, because they weren’t really selling. In my mid-20s, the whole thing read like a fate worse than a full-time job, so I got one, and became fascinated by the web, and ended up throwing a lot of my energy into building sites. No regrets really, except that there was one famous Canadian writer who offered to blurb my book if I ever finished and sold it, and he died. Sigh.
Weirdly, though, this weekend I was on one of my favourite question-and-answer sites and someone else remembered that article and asked about it. I remembered enough detail to plug a bit more into Google and so I found “Moby Dick in Manhattan” online. Reading it now, although it still isn’t exactly a tale of glory, it really doesn’t sound so bad after all. It does sound quaint, though, a world without blogs, Twitter, or Kindle self-publishing.