The Guardian | F Joaquin
Getting paid as a writer can sometimes feel akin to a deus ex machina, a random act of God that lets you pay your electric bill. The idea of saving any of my income is laughable these days, unless you count the change hidden in my couch cushions. Surely, I can play a few games of pinball with all that before I’m escorted off to debtor’s prison. Such is life in a world with inflation, sky-high fuel prices, and automation of even the most basic tasks. The minute they devise a chatbot to humorously comment on the news, I’m fully screwed.