"When I was a volunteer firemen, one of the guys on the department worked in a gas station. In those days of full service only, the attendant cleaned your windshield, and checked your oil and tires. There wasn’t much in a small town that was sacred, so one time he asked, “You must make a lot of money as a writer. How much?”
“I made $17,000 last year.”
For a moment he was dumbfounded. “That’s what I make.”
Since then I’ve cleared more, but my career yo-yoed between feast and famine. In the best of times and in the worst, I always wanted more. That was the compelling reason for me to never envy the people who did earn more by the sweat of their brow or who by luck of the draw were golden sperm babies whose money came from inheritance. No matter how it was made, if someone else had big bucks in the bank account, there was the possibility that ol’ Jeff could too. Even though I am now retired, I haven’t given up my dream of having a money bin, like Scrooge McDuck, but unlike him, blowing it on prostitutes and dog racing."
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