It’s good not to write for money, but here we are. Well, not here, here. I’ve made this newsletter free. Imagine if I charged you for this?

(I don’t say that in a self-deprecating way but just to say that I would do it even if you didn’t read it. )

(There do have to be things you would do even if nobody incentivized it. It’s not the “do what you love and…” cliché that riddles the most insufferable creative minds. But, for me, if it all came down to whether or not I could churn the thing—this thing, for example—into success, it would cease to be the thing.)

I’m not precious about this thing except for as I’m writing it. Then everything is so small and so special. I hold the words in my hands. I open my hands and let the words flutter onto the screen. I know, disgusting.

But that’s my life.

Most of what I do I love and makes me no money. I slide the rest into crevices, hope it makes me rich.

Things could change and then I’d have find a way to write about that. And on and on.

Mildly Yours

In which I tell you what it all means