Although I’ve drawn a line under certain things, I have engaged with a couple of people today: people from the old life. Although that life is gone, in engaging with them the way I did, I almost think a greater mutual understanding is beginning to emerge. They’ve spoken with my key worker and everyone seems to be on the same page now: I fucked up (or things got fucked up) twice but this third attempt at recovery will work.
I’ve got my writing – my chosen path – and all concerned realise that it’s good therapy. And it’s not just the journal and the blog which I write; it’s poems and short stories, some of which are written in my capacity as writer-in-residence at the railway station.
Besides the therapy element though, as it’s my chosen path, the entrepreneur in me has re-emerged and my two websites are not only parked but – subject to a few transfers of code – hosted. I just need to build / design them. Until www.gilberthousepublishing.com and www.gilberthousepublishing.co.uk are fully up and running, I’ve built a fairly decent presence on Facebook with the limited tools available to me. Given that more internet searches are conducted on Facebook than even Google, I figure this is a presence worth having. I just need more “Likes” and fans, then I’ll be permitted to assign the page its own Facebook web address. So “Like” it please.
Gilbert House Publishing
We can read and write
Fiction, non-fiction, copyrighting, editing and proof reading.
(Quite clever I thought).
The domains and hosting have been financed by the modest sum I made from the sale of the Telegaph vouchers on eBay. Unable to transfer PayPal funds to my bank account – for reasons known only to my bank it seems – I was limited to direct PayPal purchases. So the entrepreneur hat went on and here we go…
The point it is I didn’t (couldn’t; wouldn’t) spend the money on booze. It’s gone on things to aid my recovery and move me forward; to build my business / self-employment / sole-trader and realise an ambition.
So as well as being a vehicle for my own writing (this story when it becomes the novel, as well as short stories and poetry), “we” – as an organisation – offer freelance, out-sourced (I was always a master of out-sourcery when I ran my old business) writing for print and online; copyrighting, editing and proof-reading. Publishing too, which will naturally include printing: back to my roots.
Of course the life of a broke writer needs to be financed and until Gilbert House is making a return, that’s where the casual work comes in (Working in a kitchen and doing the dishes works wonders for the hands.) That and building the new venture are what’s occupying most of a 14-16 hour working day at the moment. I’m not shirking and although I’m far from dry, I’m drinking far less: I don’t have the time.
The re-awoken entrepreneur is also and always looking for other ways to make money and eBay is something which has suggested itself as something relatively easy and requires little investment (of finance but investment of time is crucial for success on eBay: I’ve done it before). There are a few little gems I’ve spotted in the many charity shops in Tonbridge, which I’m certain I can make a good margin on: a framed Monet canvas (not an original obviously, nor even a print) at £4.95: have it!. Re-selling can be very profitable if the buying and selling are done right.
Whilst at CRI today, I had a rare case of the waterworks when I spoke to some fellow clients about my kids. We’re all friends there and can talk about anything (it all stays in the room), so I let go. There’s something not quite right but at the same time reassuring about being hugged by a 6 foot 4 armed robber and a brick shithouse who’s done time for GBH. But it let the pressure cooker off. Kindred spirits; birds of a feather.
There are things I’ve lost; some of which I’ll never get back; some of which I don’t want back; others which I want back but there is work to do and bridges to build. And yet others which never went away. I don’t have much but what I have is my life; things I couldn’t be without: my notebook and pen, my keyring (the one with no keys on it as I lost the last four homes which I had keys to. The one which holds my armless Lego torch, nail clippers, a pen knife, my Poker Stars gold shark card protector, my Victorian letterpress “S” Monotype wooden printing block, my silver Monopoly hat and my dog tag with “Dad” spelt in Binary. No keys though), my library card and my kids. I’d give up everything for them but I’m rebuilding for them.
I’m well above my lowest ebb but the line I wish to cross is still a way off.
I’m rebuilding, below the line.