From 2001 to 2003 I was a writer-in-residence at the literary nonprofit Hugo House. I was paid around $250 a month. My job was to talk to people in weekly open-to-the-public office hours, teach, and produce events. The house itself, a rambling Victorian in Capitol Hill, was almost always open. People on staff had fluid roles. The accountant might double as a DJ. The grounds manager might staff the merch table. Programming left room for surprises. Some semifamous writer might come out of hiding and give a surprise reading. Drinks were always flowing and you could smoke on the front porch. I was allowed to pay writers and actors to
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