Tripio The Novel

How I found my mind, brewed some coffee, and learned to write novels.

I just reviewed my checking account. This is never a moral boosting exercise, so I most often do this on Fridays when the end of the work week momentum combats the buzzkill prompted by the figures.

Those figures tell me “I have just enough“. It has been that way for some time. Since I first suddenly became head of a single income household, in fact. Next month, due to long known consequences, I will no longer see a good amount of money appear among those figures on the second Friday of the month. My mind will then produce a new response upon seeing them, ‘It will be just enough…if”

I am not alone in seeing times tighten financially right now. An important distinction here is that I saw this happening to me. No one saw COVID-19 and all it is bringing with it on the horizon.

Several years ago I made a decision to deal with the end of this revenue stream. I had to create another one to replace it. That was easy enough. I could:

  • try to move up the ladder at my current job
  • find a second job
  • make a sensible career move
  • try to make a second revenue stream from my fiction, from my novels.

That choice is known to those of you reading this post. I decided to spend most of my spare energy and time over the last three years attempting to generate a revenue stream from creating and selling my fiction. So far the stream is not flowing. It is, at best, a revenue drip. A drip from a rusty faucet that is more irritating than useful.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

And make no mistake, I have regretted hearing that drip. There are lots of opportunities from the above list that I could have pursued. I have taken small steps towards some of those opportunities. Yet, I kept coming back to the last one on the list. I reasoned, at times, that the once in a lifetime experience to be given the chance to be a millionaire at Starbucks was, “the most valuable thing I owned.”

Drip. Drip. Drip.


However, along the way something unexpected has happened. Sure, I want-really want– the books to sell. Thankfully however, the writing, journaling, blogging (along with lots of yoga and meditation) has begat something of greater value than can be accounted for in neat columns. One could call it wisdom or peace of mind or simple maturity. Call it what you will. The clarifying ingredient here is that most of the activities I mentioned started a couple years before I even thought of selling books. The selling, and the drip, are results. They are a product of a calmed mind. They are things grown and cultivated from my mind garden. Sure, the stream is not there. Just the drip, drip, drip. Over the years, though, I have gotten used to the drip. It no longer bothers me. I have come to understand that I am the one who can turn off the faucet.

“May I help who’s next?

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