After exchanging burritos and business cards with the Fenris, I continued along the path. The magic was still inside me, but it had started to fizzle—like the picture on one of those old cathode-ray TVs with bunny ears.
Let me just warn my fellow freelance magicians out there: do not try stuffing that rabbit back in your hat. The static discharge will make your hare stand on end.
What I was experiencing now was what I call a Dry Spell. And no, I don’t mean the kind of incantation a wizard uses to get stubborn nacho cheese out of his cape. I mean the kind where you wave your Magic Marker in the air, hoping to summon freelance work—and instead conjure an otherworldly orchestra that begins playing somber chamber music at the direction of your wand. Mistaking your magic staff for a music staff, they really lean into it.
The ink began to swirl across the parchment. A whisper in the wind spoke of forgotten lore. But just before the final rune appeared…
🧙♂️ Side Quest: Acquire the Infinite Spellbook
Every good mage needs a grimoire—somewhere to stash half-finished incantations, character scrolls, and a cursed recipe or two.
We use Scrivener, the spellbook of choice for longform storytellers. It organizes chaos, binds scattered parchments, and keeps plot dragons at bay.
If your stories are bursting out of boring old notebooks, maybe it’s time to level up.
Now, I enjoy conducting thematic scores as much as any mage—especially ones performed in the key of C. As in, now you C me, now you don’t. But what I’d really like to score is a paying assignment.
Unfortunately, many of the gigs I’d hoped for had either dried up or were locked behind gates that charged admission just to peek in. Pay-to-bid sites. Pay-to-read sites. And what happens if they reject your bid? Well, now you’re out of luck and lunch money. Not exactly ideal for a wandering freelancing fantasist.
I needed another way. But first, I had to banish the orchestra back to wherever all failed magic tricks go—probably up my sleeve.
For my next attempt, I tried what the scrolls call a warm, cold pitch. The idea was simple: find local businesses in the Yellow Spellbook and send them a kind, professional message offering my services. Only problem? I may have warmed the message a little too much. There’s a chance I accidentally immolated their inboxes. If I had to guess, the email went directly to spam—right between a curse removal service and some chain mail.
Perhaps the cold pitcher came off more oddball than professional. Whatever the case, I received no replies. Just the faint sound of chamber music drifting in the background.
Clearly, it was time to change tactics. Maybe pulling orchestras and microwave burritos out of my sleeve wasn’t the best way to leverage a client.
Maybe what I really needed… was full-blown levitation.
If I could make them inexplicably rise into the air, just imagine what I could do for their business. I could juggle their laptop, coffee mug, and stapler—simultaneously. They’d be dazzled. They’d be floored. Especially if I forgot to lower them back down.
Only problem? I’d need more mana.
I checked my wallet. Inside was nothing but confetti—and I wasn’t even sure how that got there.
So for now, I’ll keep writing these scrolls. Trying to monetize the magic. And occasionally browsing the Wand Ads, just in case someone’s hiring a wizard with strong storytelling skills and an excellent sense of pun.
And if the Wand Ads don’t come through, I may just try levitating the vending machine too.
Recently, I embarked on a magical quest to transform from factory worker to copywriting wizard. Sadly, this tale has no mana crystals, no Sorcerer’s Stone. There’s no enchanted elixir—unless you count a scalding cup of coffee brewed by a disgruntled witch.
It all began when I left behind the dark forge of rewardless labor. Armed with nothing but a freelance, I ventured through dungeons of unrealistic demands, dodging Giant Rats, fending off Assembly Line Zombies, and outwitting Quality Control Specters. Exhausted and depleted, I tried to remember what I treasured most, because the reward at my job was a Mimic—a monster disguised as a treasure chest, drooling gossip and mimicry.
Nearing escape, I limped toward the exit—only to lock eyes with the final boss: the coal-black stare of the Dungeon Manager. My stamina was gone. No twenty-sided die could save me now. One more blow and it’d be game over.
The ink began to swirl across the parchment. A whisper in the wind spoke of forgotten lore. But just before the final rune appeared…
🧙♂️ Side Quest: Acquire the Infinite Spellbook
Every good mage needs a grimoire—somewhere to stash half-finished incantations, character scrolls, and a cursed recipe or two.
We use Scrivener, the spellbook of choice for longform storytellers. It organizes chaos, binds scattered parchments, and keeps plot dragons at bay.
If your stories are bursting out of boring old notebooks, maybe it’s time to level up.
Then, I felt it. A spark. A spell forming. The magic words: “I quit.” In truth, I never gave them the satisfaction. I vanished—in true wizard fashion.
Fantasy or not, the details don’t matter as much as the decision. I had a dream, and it was time to make it real. The contract with my company wasn’t exactly spellbinding. Their words and rules no longer held power over me—I held power over words.
The Wordlocksmith was born.
Join me each week in this new adventure as I chronicle the magic, missteps, and metaphors of becoming a freelance Wordlock.
Each entry in this series is another page in a writer’s grimoire—one scribbled in coffee stains and overdue invoices. But really, it’s just me trying to make sense of this wild scroll I’ve unrolled.
If any part of this sounds familiar, maybe you’re one of us. Maybe you’ve already joined the Wordlock Order—without even realizing it.
