Everyday I'm hustling

"Whip it real hard,
Whip it, whip it, real hard"
Rick Ross

It's ten o'clock at night and I am here in the compound of the virtual mansion of a client. This is a truly beautiful house with a Middle Eastern mood to the decor. It's not that the expanse of the house is decadently excessive - despite its size it almost comes across as utilitarian. As I sit here in a marble-tiled patio area outside of the pool, I realise that I want this sort of thing. The question is, can I get it as a literary writer.

Here is a balance sheet: My salary for the past few weeks of working on Fictions and updating this blog = $0.;My salary for roughly a week of work for this particular job = $Obscene. Let's just say that if I were to continue at this rate for the next month, I'd be banking heavy like the infamous $500K a month Fuzzy. And work like this is all over Guyana, once you know the right people.

Needless to say, halfway through editing this work, my thoughts turn return to my stories. I miss them. I hear them calling me in the distance. Several of them complain that they fell hurt that I just dumped my hard copy editing drafts of them from the leather folder they are accustomed to in order to make room for some research material for my present job.

Tonight, I'd like to say to my stories, "It's okay. Daddy hasn't forsaken you. He's just gone away a little while so when he comes back, it's back to the business of feeding you, grooming you, watching you mature into the award-winning pieces of literature that he always knew you'd grow up to be."