Be Your Own Boss and Earn Your Own Blood Money
The freedom of the writing life
I was dreaming I was talking to a famous author. She told me, It’s easy to be a writer, you just open a vein and bleed. I asked her what her name was and she said that didn’t matter. Then she climbed a tree and disappeared.
A pigeon pecked at my left ear and woke me up. I was lying in the city park where I’d slept all night.
“Little fucker,” I said, slapping it away.
I stood up and grabbed my army bag, which was all I owned. The sun was rising. My clothes were ragged and I stared at the ground as I walked.
The plasma bank was only about a mile away. I had heard they paid 50 bucks for a pint of plasma. By the time I arrived, a line had already formed outside the door. It was summer in Tucson and already 82 degrees. The people in line all knew each other. They were regulars. The loudest talker leaned against the plasma bank door.
“I like to get here early,” loud talker said. “I get up early anyway, and there’s no particular point in staying home.”
The metal gate that protected the front door of the plasma bank was opened at 10 after 7.
