As I continued to do my non-work for my non-boss in my non-office, as small but essential three-figure payments appeared, almost by magic, in my bank account each week, I wondered if maybe the screens were beside the point. Perhaps, I was part of some bizarre money-laundering operation.
Lately I’ve been hearing about writers in my Gen X demographic taking jobs in real estate — one of the more flexible, potentially decently paying occupations that, say, a middle-aged writer can qualify for with relatively little prior training. First it was the former bureau chief of an NPR affiliate station. Next, a colleague from a magazine I once worked at.