I took my $2 and, in hindsight, I should have kept it as a prize, but instead just tossed it in my silver tin can and wondered where I would go next. I walked through the crowded streets of Bele Chere saying “hello” and posing for pictures the majority of an hour. It was getting dark, so I decided to find a barroom for my setup. The Bier Garden, being a well-known haunt for me, was the logical choice. I knew it well and would never wander Bele Chere without adventuring there. This was the last time the festival would be held and I wanted one more crazy night in the Garden.
There was not much routine to consume my life as a writer. I woke when I pleased. I worked and wrote daily, but at my own chosen pace and at whatever venues and gigs I chose. I had no boss, but I also had no security or sick days waiting for me if I decided to say “fuck the world” on a busy Saturday. Turning down a gig or a day out doing Poetry On Demand meant I would eat away whatever money I had saved in my financial coffers, which, at any given time, was not very much.
Anger, stress, anxiety. These emotions are no good. I was slaving away at a job that I took for the ease and mindless nature of it, and not to be harassed on a daily basis. I took the job for the freedom from stress in the workplace so I could work on my writing. My sick days piled up as I stayed home from work repeatedly to write and eventually I just decided to move on with my life. I had a steroid abusing boss with a peanut for a brain and was frustrated immensely with how I ended up in this pickle. So upon being terminated for failure to show up, I headed out into the world ready to represent myself for the first time as a Writer. Continue reading