When I get on the ropes, when I’m down-and-out financially, when the spigot of journalism has run dry, when the little book udders will no longer spout cash, I go on the road, I go to this or that university or this or that conference to read a story, or to teach the unteachable—writing—and then with those hot bills pressed into my wallet, like a pumpkin thief I run back into the woods, which is where I live, and where I write when I’m not traveling out after those dollars, which is about half the time.
I’m not complaining. It is a lovely life.
Notice that I said unteachable, not unlearnable.
I say, “No, but thank you,” to the teaching offers whenever I can, so that I can stay home and work (and hike and hunt and live), but sometimes a school will offer so much that I can’t say no; sometimes a teaching job will come along that will buy two, even three, times as much time as another job, and I get to say, “Yes, thank you.”