A Cardboard Castle and the Content Machine

Purpose, Burden, and Glory

Not often I drop the mask and talk straight, a while since I wrote something...vulnerable. Not a fiction post, not an update. Just. Me.

Wrestling the question every creator hates: How the hell do you make your little creation pay their way?

I’ve written enough to cover the next three months. Not because I’m on a productivity kick, but because my job’s gone, and this is what I do. Not when I feel inspired. Not when the algorithm is ripe. Always. It’s the only constant.

But the moment you try to make what you love into your living, the world grabs you by the collar and drags you into the Content Machine. Suddenly it’s not enough to write — you need a funnel. It’s not enough to draw — you need branding. You’re not just a writer. You’re an editor, marketer, admin assistant, project manager, social media expert, and professional optimist.

You’re not just a writer….You’re a marketer, …,…,…,& …,etc.,etc.

And the worst part is, none of those hats are creative. Every role, yet None that let me just Make.

The Good Days vs. the Grind

A good day, for me, is simple. I wake up and write. I draw in the afternoon. I record audio at night. That’s it. That’s the dream. Full creative immersion.

A bad day? I get trapped in just one of those lanes. Or worse, I spend the day setting up the backend of a thing that no one even sees — formatting, converting, linking, checking metadata, wondering if this is even reaching anyone. You know drowning in logistics.

My Desire

I don’t want virality. I don’t want hype. I want something smaller and stranger: I want to matter to someone. The way authors mattered to me when I was younger. The way their stories haunted me, changed me, stayed with me, even now 20 years gone.

If a single thing I put down gets under your skin, even a little…that’s it. That’s the whole reason I’m here.

That’s the job I came to do.

Cardboard Castles

The other night, I started building a cardboard castle. Nothing serious. Just a weird little thing I made from scraps. I’m a plumber and pipefitter by trade— I’m used to working with my hands. But this was different. This was play. For a minute, nothing else mattered. I was making just for me—no algorithm, no audience, just hands and heart.

And I kept thinking about Loki — Season 2. That scene where they(Loki and Sylvie) talk about free will. Where you can’t just tear it all down and walk away. That hit me hard.

Because my self talk is often[pardon the verbiage]: “Art has no f*cking value if it doesn’t feed your family.”

And on some level as a father, a husband, I believe that. The callous cynical adult has immediate problems to deal with. A stark reality of life.

I think I, like most artist, feel Loki’s catch phrase.

I am Loki of Asgard and I am burdened with glorious purpose.

On some level I can't help but write, but to create, and it's partial because there are somethings I can't convey any other way that through some artistic medium. On some level we as artist know there is power in art.

The power of the oof.

That gut-punch moment in a story where you feel called out, cracked open, seen. I take solace in that moment.

That’s the kind of work I want to make.

That’s the rebuttal I carry in my pocket, even when it’s hard to believe in it. When the self talk is Mobius reminding me you're just a cog in the machine. That everything has its place and yours is not glory.

Keeping with the metaphor. I think Mobius’ quote

Most Purpose is more Burden than Glory.

It applies heavily to art and the choice to pursue your creative path.

The logistics, the bog down, the internal resistance, the external shit talkers, relying on no one else save you to get something across the finish line. Nothing glorious about that, it’s a slog, a grind, a mess of chaos that you need to some how wrestle into order. Those are heavy things to carry most days.

So Why Say All This?

Because I’m still trying to figure out how to make this life work.

Because this Substack isn’t just a blog — it’s the castle I’m building out of scraps.

Because I’m tired, but not out.

Because I don’t want this to be a scream into the void.

How You Can Help

If you’ve felt that gut-punch… if anything here has landed for you — I’d love your support. Talk back. Share it. Tell me you’re out there. That’s how this stays real.”

Next Time

I don’t know where this all leads. But I know I’m here. Still writing. Still drawing. Still building strange little castles in the dark.

And if you’re still here too?

Then maybe this wasn’t for nothing.