Reading isn’t doing. It’s barely even reading. 

The wiry man I thought was homeless

Too quickly suggests he can help sell my book,

With phrases like “sales funnel” and “affiliate links”

And name-drops of famous cult leaders.

 

His face shape and speech pattern

Conjure images of the family friend

Whose emotional problems

Prompted expulsion from school for threatening another student.

 

I emailed this man, thinking, “Eh, what’s the harm?”

He hasn’t set off alarm bells—

Only over-bold signs of earnest devotion,

And who am I to punish him for that?

When Next?

After completing my first novel last month, I’ve wondered when I’ll start my next big project. The answer: When it’s easier to do than not.

At the moment, I’m saving over $2000/month from freelance gigs pouring down like hotcakes, the sort of delightful mixed metaphor only released by stretching.

For the fourteenth day in a row, I consider starting a mailing list. I even have some posts I’d include, but it feels like work, unlike this daily writing, which feels like stretching.

If it’s good, it’s good. And it’s good, so why stop? Thanks to work, reading, living in Colombia, Salsa dance classes, learning Spanish, and games with friends, I’ll keep doing this until I start that.