Getting up, falling down, getting up

I've emerged from the depths of obscurity to conjure you this link to a very troubling story.

Shitty, this. But am I terribly umempathic because my first thought was that in such a market where supply exponentially outweighs demand, caveat auctor? To apply such thinking to this case in particular seems uncharitable, I warrant, but it's just another example of why I feel so gross about selling my art, why I haven't dished out my ms to contest after contest (seriously, 19 seemed a little on the low side, given the odds, so she must be pretty damn good).

My writing means the world to me, but it doesn't mean a day's wages. That's why I file shit for a living. I realize, however, that I don't want to file shit for a living forever, that it's sort of eating my soul. I am overqualified and overeducated for the work I'm doing at present. I would just as soon move back to the boondocks and raise chickens. At least then I would not have to suffer the indignity of never quite having enough to be comfortable or feel accomplished in the city. Just the indignity of chicken poo.