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“Why are you writing, Adam?”, asked the reporter, smiling as if adoring him was a sign of her superiority as a sensitive intelectual human being, kin to him and aware of all things artistic or transcendental. Her legs were great, obviously. Adam was tired of talk shows.

“Why do you report, Marjorie?”, he replied.

She made a smart move:

“Because I’m nosy. Your turn now.”

“Am I obliged to give you an answer?”

“No, you’re not, but I would be grateful if you gave me one.”

“Were not the answers of your previous guests enough?”

“I want more.”

The live audience laughed a bit.

“There’s no more”, explained Adam. “We all say the same thing.”

“No, you don’t.”

“It’s the same bullshit with different garments.”

“That was harsh!” Marjorie took her hand to her tremendous breasts, amidst the laughter. Very intelectual breasts, muse like for horny artists with a character inferior to their works. “What bullshit is that?”

“Don’t you pay attention to your guests?”

The audience was euphoric and her breasts jiggled with movie star emotion.

“Please enlighten us, Adam.”

“We like to tell stories, we’re fond of our imagination, we have some severe childhood trauma, we read a lot, we were prodigal children, we have a mysterious gift, we’ve always been misunderstood and don’t blend in very well, our intelect stood out from the ones of our piers, we write because we are compelled by our talent. Am I covering it all?”

“Pretty much. I can give you that.” Marjorie, for the first time, stared at him as a reporter. “Aren’t those statements true?”

“Who cares? They’re good for sales and self-esteem.” Adam shrugged his shoulders. “We have no idea of what we are saying or doing, as everyone else. Being a writer is no different from being a bus driver or a hairdresser. We do what we do and that is all.”

“Come on!”

“Why the hell should we be any different?” Opening his hands, Adam extended them to the audience. “We have the same needs of you all. That is why some of you read us. We only have the problem of having an activity dependent on large audiences to make a living out of it. We are forced to have some fame to get food on our table. The more you see us as geniuses, the more we fill our stomacs.”

Huge applause, the best joke ever, to be forgotten in the next ten seconds. Adam restrained a burp from his nausea.

Marjorie was smiling as having gas pains.

“What are you trying to say, exactly?”

“I’m saying this mystic is all business. Our crises of creativity, for instance, are just emotional exhaustion, because of the pressure in our lives. Give us money, free us from the pursuit of fame and we will give you the best novels ever. We are workers and our job is presenting our imagination. Put us on a decent pay roll and you’ll get the best of us. We manufacture culture. Pay us as you pay a teacher, a doctor or a bloody politician!”

Now the applause was a serious one, supporting the manifesto. The crowd likes manifestos. People feel their lives matter when making part of thar sort of thing.

“I think you’ll have a banquet on your table, this time, Adrian.”

“Perhaps I ought to thank you for being nosy, I guess.”

Their smile was sincere now. Adam felt some relief.

Saturday, October 10th 2021

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The greatest problem of an author is not running out of ideas. It is running out of money. Worse, it is not making a dime with each oeuvre. One works to death for the void, finding no audience, and no payment. When finding an audience, there’s still no payment.

Here I am blogging, to keep a non-paying audience, still with the illusion of making it grow enough to the point of being paid for add space. This is so silly. It won’t happen. My content isn’t comercial enough.

Being an original author is no way of making a living. One has to be trendy, fashionable and formula rendering to get some income. It’s a matter of finding a tasteful recipe for the crowd and serve pudding over and over again, just like Hollywood. Some illuminated call this recipes genres. The more you follow the recipe, the better author you are.

There are also some enlightened critiques defending the idea of compromise between originality and recipes for success. Those shrunk brains don’t understand that compromise means loss of new meaningful content, which is cut out to be replaced by standards. It is commercial censorship and soul amputation.

Who am I kidding, then, with my silly project? Both this site and CHRONOS will never make me money to survive. I will only make it through commissions, as a drawing and copywriting machine. A working author, I suppose.

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I wish I knew how to blog properly. I am talking about making money with it, obviously. As far as I can tell, there are two major kinds of blogs: the How To blogs and the Look At Me blogs. Both can promote services. Internet gurus say money is on the first kind of blogs, unless you’re some kind of celebrity or influencer.

When I say blogging it includes any kind of social media posting, like Instagram, Facebook, YouTube, Twitter, LinkedIn, Pinterest and what not. It is very difficult to me to achieve any sort of success in this virtual universe because I don’t like it enough. If the door to affordably promote my services and my art was another, I would probably eliminate all my Internet profiles and stay away from the computer.

Most of How To blogs are very specific or rather redundant and deceiving. Pretending to be an expert is highly recommended in the blogging sphere. The Internet becomes a giant sales channel. That’s the main purpose of it as a business. The Look At Me blogs of influencers are the new generation of commercials.

People like me, who strive to make a living with their art and have creative projects of plain and simple aesthetic value, try hard to survive in the dog world of commerce. I avoided it for twenty years, having a daytime job that ruined my mental health. Now I’m trying to learn how to play the game without getting my soul dirty. I hope my mind doesn’t collapse.

My blog and site is growing, but it’s not exactly a success. I wonder if I’m not just wasting time and energy with this and social media. I might give up of posting daily. I really don’t know.

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The Toxicity Of The Search For Success

I’ve been killing my imagination for quite a long time. My concern on money and approval is the poison I use. It is quite effective. Money takes your brain to invest energies on tasks that have nothing to do with your creative work, such as keeping or looking for a job. Approval forces you to tailor your work to an audience.

This blog, the Etsy shop, my Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Pinterest and LinkedIn profiles exist for the money. Boredom and my own rejection of the work in progress happens when I fear the judgement of my two imaginary audiences. These are the commercial audience and the artistic audience.

The only way to fresh air is having no concerns at all. Pleasure must be the only guide. I should not allow the need for money and the longing for attention to jeopardize it, has I’ve been doing all my life. In order to get my heartful work done and feed the souls of others I must be smarter than that.