It’s an odd feeling when you see the cover for the first time. It’s not my book — of it i am only a part but to see my name — there in the print — thats pretty spiffing. I can’t imagine what it will feel like when i see my nasty word vomit spread across a few pages in the second volume of The Holon Project. I hope i will feel proud, even if just for a minute. I guess i don’t quite believe its happening though August is just around the corner and i’ll have a cold copy in my hands. To date i am $15.08 richer for my writing.. and a hundred pound sterling richer for bribery. Not only that i am still waiting for a verdict on a short story i submitted months ago. July 20th is when writers will start to be notified, if i don’t hear anything then .. well my story didn’t cut it. This is the likely scenario, but hope prevails — you never fucking know. For now i’ll revel in this beautiful artwork on a cover of a book that i will be in and that will be published. Thanks Ashlee Hampton. 

The Rock had seven dollars; i have eight cents

Some days i want to write and thats as far as i get. The want. I spend around 75% of my time wanting to write, researching and making notes; which leaves me 25% of free time to sit down in my office to actually write, right?



As a crumbling human being i’m already beating my head against the nine to five trivia of feeling ill equipped to survive, let alone forcing myself to word wrangle when i feel…you know… ill equipped.  

 Onwards we must push, nevertheless. You understand — you have to too. So instead of me pouring my black heart out this evening, theres a little light at the end of the tunnel i wanted to share. The tiny success that pushed me to keep on writing. Small victories you understand.

 I don’t come from the heart of money – i know people inclined that way and they are the poorest people i ever had the misfortune to meet. Either way I’m not built to want it, to crave it or discern how the hell i start making the bucks that’ll line my coffers with rims of steel and gold. It matters not. I never went wanting, but i dreamed of all the things money couldn’t buy. I tell you this only so the following has a little more power than it would otherwise. 

 The personal essay i had published a week ago so far made my poorman pocket $0.08 richer. In the grand scheme of things it may seem a tuppance — hell not even! But to the man with nothing, well, i’m doing pretty damn well. A couple of coppers, i got ’em but i have a lot more than that. So to date my writing as earned me a 100 pounds sterling, feelings of shame and deceit — along with my mere 8 American cents.