How to Become a Professional Writer
Some writers earn a living telling other writers how to make thousands of dollars a month as writers. They’re mostly lying. They wouldn’t make a living following their own advice. Now, I concede that a few of them do follow their own advice and do make those thousands. You might consider them the top 1 percent. They’ve found a successful niche. For some of them, that niche is telling other writers how to make a living. See how that works?
What Kind of Writer Do You Want to Be?
Confession time: I’m a hack writer. An online content hack writer, specifically. It’s not the only writing I do, but it’s usually what pays the majority of the bills. I used to be a little ashamed of it, but these days I’m feeling defiantly proud.
Punk Music, The Cold War, and The End of the World
On a quick grocery run a few years ago, somewhere between the ramen noodles and the toilet paper, “London Calling” by the Clash poured out of the overhead speakers, and a little piece of me died. The music of my teenage angst was reduced to the kind of peppy background noise that makes you happy enough to buy the manager’s specials. Apparently the end of the world is now grocery store fodder and I am officially fucking old and the end can’t come soon enough. I understand my teenage self in a whole new way.
The Colors of my Spells
Black is the color of a counter-curse and blue is a shade of forgiveness, the book of spells laid out. But it also noted
Who in the World is Interested in Cryptocurrency?
Several weeks ago I invested $40 in Dogecoin. That dog was just so damn cute. That’s what a lot of people expect me to say, amiright? You know, middle-aged woman, and all… But that’s not really why. I mean, there isn’t a Shiba Inu on the planet that isn’t cute, but I don’t make investment decisions based on emotion. I’m not stupid. I also spent 30 years as an accountant and working in finance, so I know a little about money.
Desperately Seeking the 1980s
I miss the 1980s. No, I'm not talking about the neon jelly shoes, scrunchie-wearing, Jem watching, tween version of the 80s. I'm talking the full-on, Bright Lights Big City, Miami Vice version of the Bonfire of the Vanities 1980s. The I-turned-21-in-1985, 80s. And no, I didn't line up in club bathrooms for lines of coke, but I did have to weave my around my snorting friends to get to a stall, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other. I don't remember how I managed to pull down my pantyhose for a pee.
I Am Not a Runner. I Hate Running. I Do it Anyway.
If every day is the first day of the rest of your life then the first day of a new year shouldn’t be very significant. That’s what I told myself as I laced on my old running shoes. It was pure coincidence that I decided to go running on the first day of January. It was a spur of the moment decision and definitely not something that had been lurking in my subconscious. The extent of my denial was a vast and breathtaking landscape.
The Best and Saddest Pair of Thrift Store Rain Boots Ever
My daughter and I went for a walk recently in some wetlands near our home. Spring had sprung but some bright red rosehips were still clinging to their twiggy stems. I stopped in my tracks and pointed them out to her. She gushed enthusiastically for my sake and moved on. I thought of the last time I had admired them and wished I had worn my rain boots.