I am a writer—at least, I once was. With my mother’s assistance, I composed my first “book” in eighth grade. I dictated a story focused on atomic bombs, nuclear weapons, and the Strategic Air Command (SAC), while she typed—a considerable undertaking. This project was meant for my science teacher, Mr. Pershell, who was sufficiently impressed to award me an A. That grade felt like a crucial reinforcement, lifting me from a difficult period characterized by the monotonous assignments that burdened my education. While the A improved my academic standing, I felt that my dedication warranted greater acknowledgment. I continued through life akin to a feather on the wind, reminiscent of Forrest Gump.

My next attempt at writing occurred during college, a decade after earning my GED. For a project fulfilling two class requirements, I chose to address Physical Plant Disaster Recovery Planning. This endeavor eventually led to my employment at a small disaster recovery firm in Long Beach, California, followed by opportunities in the Valley of L.A. and ultimately, a firm in Libertyville, Illinois. However, the nature of the work resembled little more than elevated janitorial duties, and the remuneration was scarcely above the poverty line. A living wage would have been beneficial, yet in 1990, the response was a definitive “No thanks—we’re all Republicans here.”

I did not engage in writing again until the 2000s, motivated more by urgency than by ambition. My objectives were not met with the anticipated success. In ’04, I authored Spiritflight. In ’06, I released Conspirators, Confederates, and Cronies. In ’07, I produced my major work, Wealth, Women, and War. By ’09, under a pseudonym, I completed First Steps on the Path—that work is now lost. I also compiled a collection of poetry entitled Well Past Midnight, although that manuscript has since disappeared. I published through WordTech Press in ’08, coinciding with the onset of the Great Recession, which struck with devastating force due to corporate greed, widespread neglect, and pervasive classism.

I have established my credibility in the field. While I now utilize AI for editing, the creative process is fundamentally mine—my essence, my voice. My mother, who aided me in the early stages of my writing journey, passed away in ’06, leaving behind her typing days. AI may enhance clarity, wit, and coherence, but the core of the work remains my own. As the saying goes, I have earned my place.

I am now retired, living on my Social Security check, which Elon Musk has expressed a desire to eliminate—a sentiment that has diminished my previous admiration for him. I continue to hope for the opportunity to sell a few books and deem it a success.

You tell me, will this succeed now?