Be a gypsy, get around.

I started my fortune teller gypsy painting. How does one come to terms with being a writer who’s never been starving? Who’s never not had health insurance or a warm, comfortable, safe home? I’m not presenting these as problems warranting pity; that should be obvious. I’ve read so much material that has been written by people who have faced such adversity. 


No one is perfect. No life is perfect. If everything is relative and I am able to relate to others’ suffering, might others be able to relate to my overall good fortune? 

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