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.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

My Return To The Field

How often must I remain here? I must have died unexpectedly, and my wandering spirit, aura thick with malevolence and anguish, refuses to acknowledge my own death. Indeed, I have become a ghost, cursed to haunt diners, coffeeshops, bars and beaches, pen brandished and book unsheathed. I've grown so distant from others that Im more statue than Man, yet where this separation once stung painfully, it now soothes reassuringly. Lumped in with a generation of "men" with testosterone levels lower than a woman's would be 30 years ago, and forced to make due with "women" that proudly proclaim themselves sluts and will actually attempt to fistfight men if they are ignored and eschewed, as they should be, my sentiment is clear. I want no part of this generation. It's filthy and degraded.

You could say I'm living a daydream right now, a fantasy granted the breath of life by divine providence. How many shifts at work have I frittered away contemplating the perf…

Beacon Of Light In The Darkness

Beacon Of Light In The Darkness




For too long I've harbored the one-sided shadows of former relationships. Torturous, rapid bombardments of perceived slights and ridiculous thought crimes. I've stifled my own opinions on everything from politics to religion, the two classic hot button issues, paragons of ostracization and dogmatic pollution.

The ghosts of the past are insidious and seductive, causing me to view them through rose-colored glasses for a formerly indeterminate amount of time. Yet now, in the absence of that old, familiar love, the grip of nostalgic fantasy has been loosened as my naivete is strangled by harsh reality.

Gasping for breath, it attacks me with a battalion of its best memories, a company of incomparable moments, countless divisions of dreams rendered dead by inaction and hatred. In the end, we all die alone. In those final, fleeting hours, we'll be surrounded by a devoted, compassionate family if were lucky, holding and pumping our aching, callouse…

Curious Contemplation

My emotions are tumultuous, a whirling tornado throwing me around chaotically with no certain direction. I am trapped in the eye of a storm that has been raging vehemently for the past year. Whom can I trust? When friendship becomes a creaking facade and disrespect laughs mockingly behind a thin veneer of humor and joviality, I am crestfallen and wandering.

Crippled by indecision and weakened by the constant hammering of my trust in my own instincts, I return intuitively to that old harbinger of my past isolation and sustenance; pure, unbridled rage. Fists clenched and compassion askew, the only thing that saves my would be targets is my sense of rationality. Compassion is a finite resource, not to be squandered on the undeserving.

When I first arrived, I was immediately thrust into an arena I was totally unprepared for. The world I had occupied for the past 3.5 years was one of combat and character, where disputes were settled with clashing bones and straining muscles in the privacy…