On tiny wins, creative doubt, and why even pocket change can keep a writer going

I STARTED WRITING on Medium in November. Partly to start building a platform. Mostly because I was feeling stuck on my current novel. To me, writing is writing—whether it’s scribbling in my daily journal, adding to my author website, or trying to engage with other writers on Medium.

But really, it’s not.

My novel sits on my phone, wondering where my love went.

I still love you, untitled manuscript 3. I’m just a little distracted.

So I busy myself writing essays for Medium, for this website. On writing, on family, football, my dogs. On anything that isn’t my manuscript. And just now, when I checked my statistics (again), there it was: six cents.

I’d earned six cents for the words I’d put out there. I needed that. Six cents might not sound like much, but after weeks of query silence, it was the first tangible proof anyone was paying attention.

Querying is the ugly side of writing that those who’ve made it rarely discuss. It’s a lot of letters—trying to sell yourself, your work—to people who get thousands of similar letters from writers just like you. And most of the time, you never get a reply. When you do, it’s a form letter rejection that sits like an indictment—against you, your talent, your dreams—in your inbox. 

Am I a terrible writer? Am I fooling myself that I have what it takes to traditionally publish my novels? Is anyone listening out there?

Six cents.

It’s nothing. And everything.

Something about seeing those six pennies—change I’d toss aside on a normal day—gave me a little boost I absolutely needed.

So I returned to my novel, finally finishing chapter forty-four, which has languished in indecision for more than a week. I wrote my second novel in five weeks. This third one’s labor is a little bit harder. 

But I got the words down and wrote the first couple sentences of chapter forty-five. 

Maybe tomorrow I’ll earn eight cents. Maybe one day, a whole dime. Dream big or not at all, right?

But I’m not doing this for the money. I work nights in the hospital to put food on my table. I write because it’s what I love. It’s a part of me I can give to a world that longs for connection. A world where words still matter. Where stories need to be told.

And for pennies to the hour, I’ll keep telling them.

Because tonight, six cents is priceless.