A staff of one...

 From the desk of Dan Price...

The creek continues to flow...and so do the words.

Maybe it’s been my destination all along.

I’ve spent seven decades talking to a little fella in my head. He must be tiny. How in the heck could he get into such a small space?

At the age of 77, the voice in my head has finally left me alone to fend for myself. I mean, that old brain of mind has been so cluttered over the years, and recently, I have told myself… told myself!!!! Listen to me! I’ve told myself to let it go, let it rip, and let the words flow…all without the little fella steering me in one direction or another.

Suddenly, I’m my own publisher, writer, storyteller, author, and crazy old man — all wrapped into one bundle.

And I don’t have to worry about getting a discount for this bundle. It’s been free all along. Self-publish, self-write, self-edit…well, you name it.

In my case, there’s no money in all those endeavors mentioned above. If you don’t believe me, I can show you some recent royalty checks to clear your mind.

This old man has always flown by the seat of his pants. There was a time, some thirty years ago, when I was a struggling reporter and worked for a newspaper. Every couple of weeks, I’d deposit a check, pay the rent, buy some groceries, fill up the jalopy with gas…and continue to peck away at the typewriter. I think it was a typewriter. I’m not sure; my memory is beginning to fade.

Let’s back up a second. My memory is not fading and is still intact. I have a curse. I remember everything, and suddenly, I want to get it all out and into print.

But I’m a staff of one and chances are I’ll live the rest of my life the same way: as a staff of one.

At this point, I’m not sure I want it any other way. I have just enough social security coming in to pay the bills, and currently, if I drive less than 300 miles a month, then I’m good to go.

I do have to worry about my laptop burning out. I must have passed the word limit for such a device long ago.

Still, it’s not so bad being a staff of one.

No one is around to tell me if I’ve been bad or good. Whoops! Or is it oops? In 1920, it was Whoops! I’m not sure about all that. I’m not that old. I was born in 1945, right when World War II ended.

It’s been a long journey.

So, if the words keep flowing, the journey may be far from over.