I used to be a writer, I wrote about TV and movies and books, back when people read things on paper. I’d arrived in New York in the late ’90s, the last gasp of the glory days, although no one knew it then. New York was packed with writers, real writers, because there were magazines, real magazines, loads of them. This was back when the internet was still some exotic pet kept in the corner of the publishing world -throw some kibble at it, watch it dance on its little leash, oh quite cute, it definitely won’t kill us in the night. Think about it: a time when newly graduated college kids could come to New York and get paid to write. We had no clue that we were embarking in careers that would vanish within a decade.

I had a job for eleven years and then I didin’t, it was that fast. All around the country, magazines began shuttering, succumbing to a sudden infection brought on by the busted economy. Writers (my kind of writers: aspiring novelists, ruminative thinkers, people whose brains don’t work quick enough to blog, or link, or tweet, basically old, stubborn blowhards) were through. We were like women’s hat makers, or buggy-whip manufacturers: Our time was done.

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I bought a bar. The once plentiful herds of magazine writers would continue to be culled -by the Internet, by the recession, by the American public, who would rather watch TV or play video games or electronically inform friends that, like, rain sucks! But there’s no app for a bourbon buzz on a warm day in a cool, dark bar. The world will always want a drink.

Gone girl – Gillian Flynn

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