Sleeping in a Closet to Be a Writer
Paying my writing dues in the days of Elvis
Sixty hours a week working jobs a sane man wouldn’t attempt.
Three roommates in a one-bedroom basement dump.
Me sleeping in a storeroom behind our only closet.
Rent a hard $30 a month for my windowless dungeon.
Twenty-one years old and thought I knew it all.
Writing for a living on a typewriter from the days of Elvis.
Scribbling my columns by night and finishing school by day.
Making big money and beer was only $3 a pitcher but I was still broke.
Don’t remember sleeping those years.
Every day was a Saturday of cheap beer, bad shots and beautiful women.
First time I ever made money and all of it lasted as long as the shots and girls.
I was a writer gone bad, a regular Henry Miller, and didn’t even know it.
Much older now but maybe not wiser.
Still sit up late nights writing my little stories but drinking better wine.
Glad I lived those days as a struggling writer paying my dues,
I sure as hell wouldn’t want to do it again but I do miss my typewriter.