To Whom it may Concern
Peeking into the writing world indicates that starting a writing career would be like tunneling into prison with a teaspoon. Squandering precious life chasing elusive, meager compensation seems more like serving a sentence than creating one. Now, I own several spoons and revel in hard work, but bird in the hand feels much more financially sound. My romantic idea of writing had me believing that shaping an image in someone’s mind by using the mechanics of words would be freeing. Working enough to support a family, taking care of that family and then depriving yourself any pleasure to build something on the slimmest chance that it would be experienced by anyone else doesn’t appear to be very free.
The beautiful delusion I had of leading tours through the mist of an English garden at sunrise or sharing the feeling of descending onto a valley floor between two ruggedly stunning mountain ranges has changed to ugly truth. Waiting on a stone dock for my boat to come and take me to the waters of nonlocal intelligence has become too painful to even hold my fishing rod. The two cents I thought would be good fertilizer for society don’t weigh quite so heavy in my pocket anymore. ON the bright side, at least now I won’t have to waste time and money to improve my weak high school education after seventeen years. The pen might have power, but gambling has never appealed to me, so I guess I’ll go enjoy the mathematics of plumbing. Please cancel my subscription because my dream is dead.
Thank you for wasting
Your time.
New member
2005 ish
