Ghostwriting is a terrible way to live, but there's all sorts of crap people do to pay the bills. First of all, some of us have what's called a "faulty decision-maker". We believe we have greatness inside, and we don't want to spoil the deal. The theory then goes on to describe how sinking into a couch, while holding a soggy beer cozy that sports the logo, '"Welcome to Moronville, population: YOU" in your hand leads to greatness more readily than seeking gainful employment.

Some of us, on the other hand, have some inkling of what we want. I do. Nevertheless, I've cleaned the nasties off the walls and bathroom tiles of by-the-hour motel rooms, and I've inserted catheters for a very intelligent, paralyzed young man who knew he was going to die. Most recently, I ran the foster care system for adults with developmental disabilities in my county.

In the under-funded, uninterested state of Oregon, this last one was the worst. Beyond the consistent cases of gross negligence or the outlandish, highly-common instances of physical and sexual abuse enacted by care providers, the simple, unbelievable fact remains that citizens of my glorious state refused, for the second year running, to support a measure that would fund developmental disabilities- and mental health support (two divisions, two budgets) along with financing for five day school weeks for kids everywhere (yeah, I said five day weeks). My job was secure; but when the second measure was dismissed with distinction, twenty percent of patients in our county’s mental ward (the figure was different in other counties) were summarily ejected, sans guardian, sans housing. In my county, one client was killed by the end of the first week.

So it goes. There’s a point I’m trying to make–something to do with hearing, then accepting your calling–but I haven’t reached that point in this blather, yet.

I studied English and completed an honors thesis of short fiction as an undergraduate. That was many years ago. Since then, as you may have successfully deduced, I social-worked my way through an era spanning a hair’s breadth under a decade. During several disjointed periods of the decade, I traveled around the United States and Canada, followed Mediterranean Europe from Portugal to Greece. I armed myself only with a backpack, a train pass, a hefty yet compact Lonely Planet Travel Guide (the real bible), an inspiration to travel alone, and my notebooks. I wrote. That was the point–or so I thought.

I fled the expensive world of Holy Week in Spain only to plunge headlong into a more expensive version of Holy Week in Italy. Even my Lonely Planet did not know that the week takes place on different weeks in these countries. Later, of course, I would discover that the celebration continues for an additional week in Greece, as well. By the time I had spent a week in Italy, I had spent a week in Italy without shelter or food. I could not afford anything beyond a small room and a pepperoni sandwich from a bar, on my first and only night in Venice. Ever after, I ate potato chips and slept standing on overcrowded night trains, heavy hiker’s pack strapped to my back, from one part of Italy to another. I took the longest, uninterrupted routes for better sleeping.

In Brindisi, Italy, while involved in a moderately kosher breaking-and-entering (I was locked out of a hostel) the local sleaze stole my backpack and all writings contained therein. I collapsed, sat frozen mentally and physically on a thin bunk mattress for a day and a half. Then I met Lizardo, a fugitive from Santiago, Chili, and after using the remainder of my money to purchase a boat ticket, we ferried on to Greece, to Cyprus, and eventually to Haifa where I ate good, cheap falafel and met a shockingly robust woman.

But I left my will to write in Italy, and I was quit for good–yes, for almost an entire decade I silenced myself, pondered fate and free will–until this last job for the county unlocked my tongue. So I’m back to it again, writing and wondering how I can make it pay the bills.

I picked up a despicable contract, recently, and I’ve written more articles than I can really say–during February alone. Ghostwriting articles forces you to slur your words, lose the content, dribble out a line when you’d rather say something else. Around the World Wide Web, many, many articles decorate a small business front page, with no author’s name signed below. I don’t even know where they are. I couldn’t locate them if I tried.

But I’m writing again. I don’t remember the name of my couch (there was a name, I think). I drink beer from an uncozied bottle that sports the logo “King of Beers”; and, did you know, if you honestly and unequivocally try hard enough, you can taste the uniquely Beechwood-aged savory undertones? And I’ve learned by taking this absurdly unpredictable path that writing was the point. Isn’t that funny? I discovered that writing was the point, after all. And I have dead and abused and Italian people to thank for reminding me.

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