I’m going to do an unusual post, without writing content; I apologize if that bothers anyone. But this is on my mind.
“I’ve figured out what makes you tick,” my dad said to me late one night when I was home visiting for the holidays. “Money doesn’t matter to you.”
“I don’t care about money,” I agreed with a grimace while he continued to talk. “It’s crap.”
“You care about what interests you. What gets your mind going–cultures and languages and making connections with other people.”
And, it’s true. I really don’t care about money. I would love to win the lottery mostly so I could give the majority of it away, and the bit I’d keep would just be to get me out of debt and let me live with moderate comfort while I write the rest of my life, and also so I could keep a bit aside to make sure my dog always has the best medical care available with a fund. If I could, I’d like to always be able to give for free everything I write, everything I do. When I was younger, my family saw that I liked to write and somehow I wrote it in honor of other people. My grandpa’s death, my grandma’s death, my cousin’s wedding… At one point I got commissioned to write poetry for my cousin’s graduation, and when I realized my aunts were going to try to pay me for it I was aghast.