Until he sold the Great Novel for a hefty enough sum to pay the rent on his apartment for a few years, pragmatism seemed to be called for. In the distant past, the writer had tried every joe-job he could think of; he'd picked grapefruit and filed insurance applications, fried pancakes and sold fitness equipment door-to-door. Since then, he'd supplemented his royalties by other means that he was even less proud of: he'd written inane articles for in-flight magazines and lived two years too long with a doctor because it was just so damn handy not to have to worry about the rent. This year, at least, he would be making his living in a job which was, if not literature itself, then at least not unconnected with it. As jobs went, the writer thought this would probably turn out to be a rather pleasant one. Interesting, even, at the human level as well as the intellectual one. Packing his possessions into the locker room at the self-storage facility, the day before his departure, he tried to visualize the office that awaited him at the college, perhaps with a view of the bluish mountains.
