I sold more words the other day.
Tasty, informative words.
It was all in English, of course, although not my English.
So I rounded up all my zeds, threw in a couple “u”s where there are usually none, and managed to squeeze out more than 4,000 saleable words on credit cards, chequebooks, and the overall need for a household budget.
It took over 20 hours to pull it together in a way I liked.
And when I was done – and after stretching out on the floor and moaning, “Why me? Why?” for a couple of minutes – I sat up with a song in my eye and a gleam in my heart.
I would create my own budget.
A spreadsheet all my own.
Expenditures? I’ve always paid my bills on time, despite what those nasty people at the student loan offices will tell you.
But keeping track of what I make, and every dollar I spend?
Wait – does this mean that I should account for the jars of coins I’ve got buried in the backyard? What about the cash I’ve taped to the underside of kitties?
Just kidding. That’s not where the money is. Everyone knows that all available monies are kept in the underwear drawer, below the undies one doesn’t care for but can’t throw away but atop the restraining orders.
And so I sat on the couch the other day, laid everything out in an Excel document: the bills, the income, the savings.
I had a plate of nachos.
I drank three cans of Fresca.
And I built some rolling, rollicking formulas that run from month to month.
These I’m-being-paid-to-write jobs are paying off in all kinds of ways.