According to a story in the current New Yorker (actually, a single line in a story which wasn’t about money at all but I’m counting on the magazine’s reputation for fact-checking for the accuracy of the information), when I gave it all up in the late ’60s to go freelance, I was making what would be about $75,000 annually in today’s terms.
That implies that, had I stayed on my corporate career path, today I’d be lolling about on beaches around the world as I moved from residence to residence today, smoking cigars and bitching about taxes.
Either that, or dead of terminal boredom.
And therein lies the wisdom of my choosing not-so-genteel poverty.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.