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.