Being a writer has it’s perks. You have a hidden cart of arsenal that no one knows about; especially when you are working a minimum wage job and not attending school full time. If you don’t tell anyone that you are a college graduate, a free thinker, a soul searching nomad of a human being you may as well be a high school drop out.
You have to assure folks that you are cool and hip (at least in the town you’re from). Okay so maybe you weren’t like the fucking coolest person in the world but you had goals, you had a tight circle of friends, you could throw a party and light a cigarette from time to time.
Then you reach an age where being unemployed and watching Maury and fighting to have a writing career in a world of freelancers and freedom writers (this is the name I am giving to writers who write for free in order to write about what they are most passionate about) makes your deprecation run even deeper and thicker than ever before. This is only worsened by the necessity to work a job. Therefore the horrible cycle begins.
You still leave poems in library books so at least there’s that.
another broke writer 