I Am A Writer For Hire

I'm back to work. Back to half-work. Almost half the hours, chop, like that. This economy began it's financial beheading of my family with the loss of my husband's hard earned and much loved business, continued along with the enormous IRS and medical debt, and has ascertained that a tendon, a ligament, some kind of silly string was still hanging by our neck and CHOP. Half-hours at work. I have looked so hard for writing work online. I have sent out carefully crafted emails that I spent hours working up. I have sent ideas, columns, poems, links, perfected the art of the self-selling soundbite, and nothing. I am a writer. This is what I do best, what runs in my familial blood, what I have done since I was five and what I always responded with to the question What do you want to be when you grow up? I write more than I breastfeed. I write more than I have sex. I write more than I eat. I probably write only less than I read. Hire me. I'll make you happy. I'll write until your shark tank is full of chum and your hands full of newspaper print. I'll write until your teeth are stained with coffee laden afternoons of reading. I'll write until your eyes are tired and your email is full of my attached. Just pay me to do it, so I can pay our goddamn water bill.

Yours,
Maggie May Ethridge