It has been hard to accept that my freelance writing days (for paid publication) are over.
My job was outsourced to cyberspace.
I haven't even tried to sell anything for years. Even the local print alternative weeklies dried up. Now, everything is available online for no pay.
I still enjoy writing. But I have no paying audience. This state of things has given me the luxury of stretching, writing in new forms and new experiments of prose, squirreling away the pages for years, finishing a book, not finishing a book, not working on deadline, luxuriating in infinity.
William Buckley could go to Switzerland for a month and write a book every year, in between hitting the slopes. Good for him. I've never read any of his books and he never read any of mine.
More and more, I feel like Herman Melville, fading into anonymity as he did. But at least he lived in New York. And wrote Moby Dick.
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