Skip to main content

Vagabond Writer

Ive made, all totalled, about $28 for my writing. I used to sell poems in high school, and Ive always written papers for others. Proofreading and editing are obvious extensions of my expertise, so they added weight to an otherwise barren wallet on a sporadic basis. But altogether and on the books, Ive made about $28. The number is so awkwardly exact because I can remember the transactions with reassuring certainty. $20 through PayPal when I was 15 for selling lyrics to a song to another struggling, 16 year old musician. $5, again recieved through PayPal, for a quote I penned after about 10 minutes of thought. Lastly, $3 upfront for a love poem in college. All in all, I hope I got that kid laid. As I grew and matured, or was at least supposed to, my writing began to grow in scope. New words were absorbed surreptitiously into my lexicon, surprising me by presenting themselves for use when I was stuck on a sentence. My topics expanded in variety, and I tried my hand at everything. Eventually I began the habit of recording 1000 words a day, which led to the birth of this blog. I feel at ease when I write, as if Im not only decluttering my mind, allowing it room to breathe after processing the day's stresses, but preparing it as well, exercising my elocution for battle, greasing the wheels and flexing my intellectual muscles. Recently I read an article speaking of the boundless, unparalleled opportunity presented to our generation. We can work from anywhere there is an internet connection, which at this point can be defined as the entire world. Writers are particularly susceptible to this phenomenon, and as it appeals to me, Ive asked myself, why can't I do it as well?


Ive lived out of a suitcase before, and had less space than a filing cabinet laid vertically as my personal area for a period of 8.5 months. With only a thin, frail curtain of cheap material as my barrier from the haze grey world I occupied, worn nearly translucent by endless ripping and tearing, I found, through force of reality and an unrelenting desire to fight, that I am indeed well suited to a minimalist lifestyle. As it stands currently, if the need arose, I could easily condense my entire life into my faithful companion, a black backpack thats followed me around the world, a gift from the US Navy. So, that takes care of one "issue" a wanderer earning his living by the glow of Wi-Fi would face; scanty, nearly non-existent living conditions. Here I find, as with all things, it's a simple matter of perspective. What others deem poverty, I view as maneuverability. I would love nothing more than to lounge at the Cafe Milan in Singapore, write a few thousand words, ensuring a pleasant financial windfall, then retire to the bucolic bliss of a hostel or cheap hotel room. Of course, these things cost, which brings us to our next beast to slay; money. I lead what I consider to be a luxurious life currently. I eat In-N-Out every night, drink iced tea from a bottomless glass, and play cards to my hearts content. Within my small microcosm of adulthood, I am successful. However, this minimalist life may not be for everybody. A girl I endured for the first few months of 2016 deemed my living habits "Section 8", as if we all had rich fathers that took pleasure in pampering us absurdly. One good friend expressed horror that I never shopped at Express or the Armani Exchange, and gasped audibly (Im not making this shit up) when I told him that the most I've spent on shirts in recent memory was $15 for an H&M Henley. Thank you to Mike Cernovich for the advice and guidance. In short, I dont need alot of money. Paraphrasing the words of one of my idols, Victor Pride, all I need is a big bag of money and my freedom. To be able to earn that by writing would be a reverie given the breath of life. The last obstacle I can think of to address is talent. Am I good enough to earn money doing this? Yes. Yes I am. Im usually exceedingly modest regarding life in general, because I realize that I dont know jack shit, and by my own admission Im just not good at alot of things. What I have predilictions toward, however, I excel at ruthlessly. Ive only ever been good at English, Math, and doing pushups. Thats it. However, those three skills have such breadth that they automatically grant competency in a wide variety of arenas. Math makes me good at poker, leads to a tendency towards rationalism and logic, and allows for some neat parlor tricks. Doing pushups, as reluctantly stupid as that sounds, gifted me with a good amount of base upper body strength and leaves me with a readily adaptable athletic focus. English, which I count as the defining path of my life, blessed me with the ability to be eloquent and articulate, both verbally and with the written word. It has allowed me to pick up women with growing ease, create, establish and enjoy friendships across the globe, understand emotions and people intuitively, and fuelled my creative fire across the vast universe of artistic endeavors. So no, no false modesty here. Although I will forever be a student, I am a damn good writer. I can do this.

We all dream of complete self-sustainability. No man, or woman, wants to be subservient to another for they're financial stability. Its a well known fact that companies underpay everybody they hire, including CEO's, far below their true earning potential. This isnt the part where I rally the angry and ignite the rebellion. Life isnt a motivational video. Not everyone, myself included, is cut out to run a business on such a wide scale. The greatest advice Ive ever read, once again, from Mike Cernovich of Danger and Play, is to internalize the concept of "You Inc.". You are your own business, and you are your own eternally growing and scalable brand. Adopt this mindset and watch your life improve exponentially. Ive done it, and, while my personal life is underwraps, Ive made large bounds ahead of where I was. In a few years, I wont need a job to maintain my own personal standard of living. What are your talents? What potential lay dormant in you, restless and ready to make a break for the surface? Let it. Reclaim your life. Start now. Tomorrow is too late.

Popular posts from this blog

My Story Of Sexual Abuse

For J. Find peace.



The first time it happened was around the end of 1999. My Mom and my Aunt were busy prepping everything for the holidays, and my older cousin begged to babysit me. Looking back, though there was nothing that indicated what he would do to me, I now find it odd that he showed so much extra attention towards me. In the days prior, when all of the kids played whatever trivial games we dreamed up, he would go out of his way to ruin my fun. I remember one instance where we were playing Heads Up 7-Up or something similar, and though my head was down, he stopped the game and said that I was peeking at the other players, something banned by the rules. "No I didnt!", I protested. "Yeah you did, I seen you!", he'd reply mockingly. My two front teeth stuck out prominently due to a mix of bad genetics and awkward dental work, and I told one of my other cousins, in jest, that I'd gladly trade my teeth for hers. We laughed, until I heard him behind us.…

The Desert

The Desert



Dry air in a normally humid climate is not conducive to a strong immune system. The shock is sudden and violent on an unseen level, I'm sure.

I never thought I'd suffer from stifling congestion and repetitious fits of coughing while stationed in Hawaii, but I was proven wrong recently.

As I pen this, my throat, though healed and no longer reacting in an incendiary manner when forced to swallow, is as arid and barren as the Mojave.

My chest is harboring a veritable barricade of mucus, and each pill I pop, in hues of rose red, ocean blue and grass green, chip away at bricks of the stubborn, phlegmatic stowaways.

My nose is on the brink of suicide, and breathing in coats each gust of air with a Welcome Aboard package of sandpaper and gravel.

In short, I'm fucked.

Yesterday I spent half the evening limping around wincing, my side cramped by an invisible knife, present and piercing, jostling with each aching step.

Save for a few meandering sets and reps performed to…

Death Row

Death Row




I cant sleep/
Because these damn bleat-/
Ing fat sheep/
Harass me/
With thoughts of home everlasting/
They ask me/
If I'm doubting/
Whether I'll be happi-/
Er back there or out be-/
Ing the bad dream/
I've been to half the peop-/
Le I've known, just last week/
I slapped, beat/
Down three/
Annoying ass teens/
For laughing/
As I watched a movie slammed, beat/
After a savage week/
At work, I found these/
Hands swing-/
Ing grabbing/
Necks to gash and ring/
While attacking/
Panicking/
I stand, shriek/
And pass weak/
Guards, they cant catch me/
Tragedy/
Befalls actually/
Facts and brief/
Glass meet-/
Ings with a pastor week-/
Ly leaves me/
Seeking/
A deity/
To help free me/
But they keep me/
In this cage weeping/
Scheming/
To beat these/
Screws/
Loose/
Unleashing/
Rage when they leash me/
Up like a dog, deep things/
Run through my head underneath these/
Veins running varicose/
My demons seem/
To always be very close/
Air and smoke/
Are an errant joke/
The mirror p…