You are what you earn

Spilling out like free flowing ink, Matilda’s little hands write every morning just before school. Eagerly filling pages with her black Pentel Needle Tip 0.5 mm ballpoint pen.

“What are you going to be when you grow up?” her parents ask. To which she answers unquestionably, “I am a writer”.

***

Ignoring her biological father’s offhand remark about becoming a doctor, because “that’s where the money is”, she enrols for a BA Degree. Stepping through the wardrobe and entering a world of magic filled with books, writers, critical thinkers, and stories. 

For four years Matilda lives in wonder and awe. However, as students graduated, got jobs and left campus, Matilda (like Lucy) had to leave this magical world behind.

***

Unable to find a paying job in publishing or writing, she wore many hats as library assistant, a cashier, tutor and freelance writer. Receiving a salary for all but one.

“It’s okay, it’s experience and exposure,” she says, posting the review. “I’m at least earning some money,” she reminds herself after finishing a call with a difficult client. “This technically counts as writing,” she jokes while sending off an email. Calmly she breathes in the smell of books while re-shelving them in the library, “at least this is heaven”.

Tired and late at night, she writes the hours away, working on articles and book reviews. Sharing it proudly online with family and friends.

“That’s great! How much do you earn?” they ask.

“Well, I’m not exactly getting paid, but I can keep the books…”

“Yea, but you can’t eat books, can you?” 

Their words stab her like a Needle Tip. Instead of writing book reviews, she scours the internet for PAID writing opportunities. Sowing seeds of doubt. Searching relentlessly on Glassdoor, Indeed, LinkedIn and even Gumtree. Spreading like drops of ink through her body, staining her skin. The ink of the ballpoint pen spreads further with every rejection.

***

For 55 years, the ink stains remained. Latched onto her skin and organs. Weighing her down, drowning her. Until one late afternoon. 

A pair of thin, wrinkled, black veined hands picks up a pen.

Muffled with the scratching of the Needle’s tip, an odd familiar and unpleasant voice laughs in disbelief, “You’re seriously going to give it a go?”

Etching away at the ink stains, her hands continue to write, not stopping for a second.

“At this age?”

The strokes of her Pentel pen are more fierce with every syllable - never leaving the page.

“You might die before you even finish,” it boasted again.

“I know!” she shouts.

The stains almost completely drained from her body, but with some evidence of it still lingering in her heart.

“But why?” the ink droplets whispers.

Matilda looks up from the page and smiles, “Because I’m worth more than what I write. So, I might as well try.”