They toil not, neither do they spin...

The yellow loosestrife by my back door.

Sweet William.

It self-seeds every year and I never know where it will turn up or what color it will be.

Getting Paid

I made an executive decision a couple of weeks back. It involves money. I decided I'm not going to give away my work anymore. I'm going to get paid for my stories. Sounds cocky, doesn't it? I mean, I'm not brilliant or famous. I write little stories. Very little stories. Some of my stories barely break a thousand words. But, still. I work hard on them. They represent countless stolen hours. I write. I re-write. And then, just to make sure I know what I'm doing, I re-write some more.  

By the time I'm done, I feel like I have something valuable. Maybe it is only valuable to me. That's okay. I can take it. I'm proud to see the growth in the work, I like that it continues to evolve. I mean, two years ago I hardly knew where to place a comma. (You're re-reading now, aren't ya? Making sure I've got all the commas in the right places. Don't bother, I promise you, I still screw them up.)  

It's not about greed. It's about respect. Mine, for my work.  

From now on, if I can, I get paid for my efforts.