Writing Books for a Living: Why I Stopped Looking for a Job

Writing books is my real job now. I don't mean a side project I hope will pay off someday. In Writing Books Is My Real Job Now, from November 2025, I wrote that the main gift I have to offer is writing these books, and that I'm not going to spend my time applying for jobs or chasing a book deal. This page gathers the posts where that job came together, in the order it happened.

Here is what I think now and why. I write books, I put them into the hands of people who can meet me in person, and I trust that housing, money and dating opportunities grow out of that. The logic is simple. A book is something you can hand to someone, and it stays available indefinitely. A reader who has met me in person is a different kind of connection than a stranger watching an old video. I also wrote that if my time isn't worth at least $100 an hour, it isn't worth doing. That was a standard for how I spend my days, not a promise about what I'll earn.

The idea started small. In Book & Body: The Name That Captures Everything from August 2025, books were still one piece of a bigger practice. I pictured a massage room lined with bookshelves, where clients took a few books home after a session and bodywork and coaching happened together. My ex-wife helped me find the name, and I could already see it on my car.

The work got more practical in September. In One Pass and Done: The Day My Workflow Clicked, I admitted I had been running fifteen transcripts through AI at once and then reading the same material two or three times. The fix was a single pass: edit each processed transcript immediately, then move on. Once I had that, I found a transcription program, MacWhisper, that I hoped would give the AI cleaner input.

October was the detour. After a $140 psychic reading, plus a $60 tip, I came away convinced I should aim for a traditional publisher, and I started a fiction novel I called Friday Yoga Crush. In The Story Has Claimed Me, I wrote about an advance of $10,000 to $40,000 that ChatGPT estimated for it. I was honest at the time that I was euphoric and hadn't queried a single agent.

November is when the plan settled. In Building My Army of Tiny Books, I laid out the model: many short books across many subjects, each one a physical book, an audiobook and a Kindle version. I had gone almost six months without making videos and didn't miss it. I wrote that I hoped to publish a couple hundred books in 2025 and imagined more than a thousand over time. I also noticed that shorter entries are faster to process and proofread, and efficiency matters.

The letter is where it became concrete. Each book now has a one-page letter folded into the front, with my phone number, who I am, why I'm giving the book away, and what I'm looking for: help finding a place to live, help making money, and dating. I had about seventy copies in my trunk when I wrote the November 14 post, and I printed hundreds more. A woman who read one told me she appreciated the authenticity of the insert, and that helped me see the letter as part of the work.

I was candid about money too. In October I joked that, rounded to the nearest thousand, I was making $0 a month. In November I told someone who suggested I get a job that I already have one, and that I won't trade my time for $20 an hour at a cafe. I did that fifteen-plus years ago, and I'm not doing it again.

Below this opening you'll find the five posts in full, newest first, so you can read the reasoning in my own words. For the life these were written in, see Divorce: How It Ended and What Came After, and if the letter idea interests you, Letters to a Thousand Doors is another place to look.

If you have a manuscript or an idea you're trying to turn into a finished book, you can get a personal video review from me.

Writing Books Is My Real Job Now

Originally published November 14, 2025.

This is my journal entry from November 14, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Divorce Day — my real, unedited days, published in order.

I walked down the street first thing this morning since I wasn’t taking the kids to school. My ex-wife was going to be there all day for a jog-a-thon. I stopped by, said hi, then headed back home with just enough time to get myself together before going to play tennis at the tennis club. Today I was also focused on finishing It’s Not You, It’s the Dating Apps, which had been sitting there ready to be wrapped up.

At the tennis club, I ended up playing doubles with a couple of guys in their seventies and one guy in his fifties. I don’t usually play doubles, but they needed a fourth, and one of the guys who regularly plays called me. I used to play with them a couple of years ago, and last year I joined in for a few weeks before dropping it to focus more on other tennis matches and yoga. I started off a bit frustrated, missing shots I felt like I should be making. After the first few games, though, I settled in. I stopped overthinking and just focused on hitting the ball back, playing aggressively, and working the net.

Once I got into that rhythm, it was clear I was in the best shape out there, and I leaned into that. I should be dominating these matches, and I did. My partner and I fell behind in the first game, but we came back strong. I started putting shots away in the middle of the net, consistently holding my serve, and when my partner served, I took over the middle and shut things down. Against the two guys in their seventies, I stood right in front of them at the net, cutting off angles and putting balls away as soon as they hit them. I won a match partnered with the first guy in his seventies, then rotated and won with the other one. Finally, the guy in his fifties and I absolutely destroyed the two older guys—they didn’t win a single game. I left feeling satisfied with my tennis and proud of how I played.

While we were there, I was also open with them about where I’m at in life right now. I told them I’m looking for a place to live, looking for a woman to date, and figuring out how I’m going to make money with these books. I gave a couple of them copies of my books, and that combination of movement, honesty, and connection put me in a really good mindset.

When I got home, I remembered some feedback I’d received the night before from a woman I gave Author in St. Petersburg to about three weeks ago. She told me she really appreciated the authenticity of the one-page, folded paper insert I put in the front of the book explaining where I’m at and what I’m doing now. That stuck with me. I realized it’s time to update that insert and that I want to start canvassing my neighborhood again—not just to look for a place to live, but to get to know my neighbors better too.

After tennis, I had lunch, which was whole-food, plant-based as usual. Today I made a taco salad. I finally ran out of hummus from Whole Foods, so I cooked a bag of beans in the Instant Pot while I was at tennis. I took about a cup of beans, added iceberg lettuce, crushed up some tortilla shells, dumped in an entire packet from one of those pre-packaged Old El Paso taco shell kits, poured in a full packet of hot sauce or salsa, and ate a massive taco salad. It hit the spot.

Then I sat down at the computer and finished It’s Not You, It’s the Dating Apps. I got the manuscript finalized, completed the cover, and ordered the proof copies. In a few days, I’ll be able to submit it to Amazon and get everything fully uploaded. Wrapping that up felt good. It was one of those days where physical effort, practical progress, and creative work all lined up cleanly.

After finishing that, I felt grateful that I still had several hours before my AA meeting. I asked myself what would be most valuable right now—what would actually move my life forward and help me connect with people. The answer that came up was writing a letter to my neighbors. I decided to create something I could hand out door to door along with my books, knocking when people were home and leaving the letter if they weren’t. I also realized I needed a second version of the letter for people outside my immediate neighborhood.

I wrote two versions. The neighbor letter focused on connection. I explained that I live nearby, that I want to get to know the people around me better, and that I’m intentionally reaching out instead of staying anonymous. I included my phone number and shared what I could use help with. In the second paragraph, I wrote plainly that I’m getting divorced and would love to find a place to live in the neighborhood so I can stay close to my kids and my mom. I then explained that I write books and am figuring out ways to monetize that work. Toward the end, I included a paragraph about dating—what I have to offer and what I’m looking for. It felt honest, clear, and integrated, not like three separate parts of my life awkwardly smashed together.

I wrapped it up by acknowledging that, yes, I could just keep swiping on dating apps, scrolling Zillow, and applying for jobs. But I asked what kind of life story that would make. I wrote that I’m not interested in living that way. I want to connect with people directly, and I believe that when we simply ask each other for the help we need, we often discover that what we’re looking for is already right in front of us. This letter felt like the best version of this idea I’ve written so far. I was genuinely proud of it. If you believe what you need might already be right in front of you but you’re not sure how to ask for it, book a one-on-one call with me and we’ll work out how you’d reach out.

I printed hundreds of copies. Then I took every book in my trunk—about seventy of them—and stuffed one of these letters into the front of each one. That way, anytime I give a book away, the context is there. Reflecting back on the my yoga studio situation, it was obvious that if I had included a full letter like this from the start—clearly explaining who I am, why I’m giving the book, and why my phone number is inside—it likely would have prevented that whole misunderstanding. Context matters.

I also prepared a stack of loose letters for going door to door. When my ex-wife stopped by with the kids, I asked her if she’d be okay with me taking them along when I do it. I thought it could turn into a fun adventure for them, something participatory instead of boring. It would also disarm people a bit—when they open the door, they wouldn’t just see me, they’d see a dad out with his kids giving books away. That feels like the right energy. My ex-wife said that was fine. My son was home that day, and I told him about it, and I planned to tell my daughter later. I also decided I’d pay them for helping, since this is part of my work.

After my meeting, I felt grateful that I had the chance to hang out with my son. My ex-wife was going out to a show, so it was just the two of us. I got home before 5:30 p.m., and we spent time together playing. We played Uno No Mercy, then I took him over to my mom’s house to hang out for a bit.

The night before, my mom and I had talked about maybe watching Battlestar Galactica together, or at least being open to watching something now and then. It’s a delicate balance—where you draw the line between having a little fun and completely numbing yourself with screens. There’s a difference between healthy stimulation and draining overstimulation that makes regular life feel dull. I’m still feeling that out, but I’m open to it. Maybe watching Battlestar Galactica with my mom is a way to share time and connection without losing myself in it. At the very least, I’m staying curious and keeping an open mind.

After my son and I got home, my daughter arrived around 8:00 p.m. from a friend’s house. Her friend’s mom dropped her off. The kids took their showers, and the whole evening unfolded easily. No irritation, no friction, no drawn-out bedtime battles. Everyone was in bed by about 8:45, calm and settled. That kind of smooth ending to the night still feels like a quiet victory.

After saying goodnight, I opened up 9 Hours Later myself and realized I’d numbered things wrong again. Sober Through Separation is actually the third book, which makes The Unpolished Truth: Living Alone Again the fourth, 9 Hours Later is the fifth and this one I’m writing now the sixth. Whatever. The numbering will sort itself out. I sat there in the room while the kids were falling asleep and my ex-wife was out, and I edited roughly twenty-five thousand words. Most of what I was reading was from around October 20, a little before and a little after—less than a month ago.

What stood out immediately was how different my mindset was then. I was talking about how I wasn’t going to have sex with anyone else, how I was going to stay single, and how certain I felt about that path—followed, of course, by what actually happened shortly afterward. It was also full of reminders about how important it is for me to write books. Reading it back made the message feel even clearer: this is the time to grind out books. Right now, while I’m not employed by anyone else and not tied to some external schedule, this is exactly what I’m meant to be doing.

I know what I need to do for the collective. The main gift I have to offer humanity is writing these books. That’s not an exaggeration, and it’s not ego. It’s clarity. Humanity does not need me working at a café, applying for jobs, or chasing a book deal. I need to write the books. I need to distribute them locally. That’s the most important part—locally—because that’s where real connections form. That’s where opportunities actually show up.

I’m tired of people texting me from old videos, scattered all over the world, people I’ll never meet. I want local readers. People who can meet me, talk with me, and build something real. As I edited, it became obvious how simple the path actually is: write the books, distribute the books, include the letter inside them. From that alone, opportunities for housing, money, and dating naturally emerge. Nothing else is required.

Earlier today, after my meeting, a guy pulled me aside and asked if he could offer some advice. I said sure. He told me, “Get a fucking job.” I told him no. I’m not getting a fucking job. I already have a job—for humanity. It’s to write these books. I don’t say that lightly. I feel like I’ve been given very clear instructions from the Collective about what I’m here to do, and I’m certain of it. These books are powerful.

I framed it this way for him: if I only had a few months left to live, would I want to get a job I don’t care about, doing something anyone else could do, just to make money? Or would I want to make sure I write the books I’m here to write and fully live what’s left of my life? The answer is obvious to me. I told him that if my time isn’t worth at least $100 an hour, it’s not worth doing. I would rather go play tennis, borrow money on credit cards, or even be homeless than work for $20 an hour. I did that fifteen-plus years ago. I’m not doing it again. If you’re staring at that same fork between a job you don’t care about and the work you’re actually here to do, schedule a private call with me and we’ll think it through together.

I’m not scrolling job boards. I’m not applying. I’m not interviewing. Fuck that. I know exactly what value I bring. When I read my own books, I think, holy shit—you don’t read stuff like this. Especially not written by someone you can actually meet. I have readers who left Amazon reviews and still text me from time to time. These books genuinely impact people’s lives. That matters. Because of that, it’s important that I protect my time. That’s why I don’t spend it working for $20 an hour at a café. My work is these books. And tonight, reading my own words back to myself, that truth felt even more solid.

If an opportunity comes along that’s truly aligned—something that’s actually meant for me—it will show up naturally. Someone will offer it, and it will feel right. I’m not going hunting for things I don’t want. It would make as much sense as going out looking for something I don’t actually want. What I want is a woman who wants to have sex with me because she genuinely enjoys me and chooses me, someone I build a life with. You don’t invest time and energy chasing outcomes you don’t even want to have.

I don’t want a job. I don’t want a boss. I don’t want to earn some mediocre hourly rate doing something I don’t care about. I love writing these books, and I’m going to write these books. I’m going to write them as if it’s going to work out—because that’s how things work out. I have an amazing book about money I’m going to write next, and reading these older diary entries lit a fire under me to start writing some of my fiction again too. This is what I do. I write books.

I’m going to get these books into the hands of people locally—people who have met me in person—and I’m going to trust that interesting, unexpected things will grow out of that. Some of those things might take time. Some might surprise me completely. But I’m not going to live the way so many people do, telling themselves they can’t do what they actually want to do. Fuck that. I’m going to do what I want to do. And if life doesn’t support me doing that, then I’ll deal with it if and when that happens.

I finished listening to Choose Your Universe, which felt like a perfect example of this exact mindset. After that, I started listening to Calling in “The One,” Revised and Expanded by Catherine Woodward Thomas—the same author who wrote Conscious Uncoupling, which I started once but never finished. This book is about consciously bringing the partner you want into your life. One of the early exercises focuses on expanding your capacity to love, and that’s what I’ve been working on today.

There are endless opportunities to contract—to close down, to harden, to fight, to resent. It really does feel like a kind of war sometimes. A war of attention. A war of thought. Choosing love instead of fear, again and again. Today my mind kept trying to drag me into fear: Where are you going to live? How are you going to make money? When are you going to run out? When are you going to find someone? Are you going to end up alone? And I kept answering back: fuck that.

I have plenty of money. I have enough for the next several months. My ex-wife is helping me out with more as well. I have savings, crypto, money in the bank, and plenty of available credit. My credit is excellent right now, and I have real borrowing power if I ever needed it. I have a place to live for the next while. If I had to, I could move in with my mom. If I really had to, I could live in my car. I have options. I have resources. I have support. I have so much. What I’m focusing on today is this simple truth: when I focus on how much I have, I keep having it.

It felt like a war all day today. Every time my mind started sliding into negativity—into hating people, judging people, generalizing—I had to consciously interrupt it and choose something else. No, I’m going to love people. And immediately my mind would push back, bitching and complaining. Well, most girls are… and I’d cut it off. You don’t know most girls. You don’t need to know most girls. You only need to care about one woman—the one who wants to fuck your brains out, who you’re attracted to, who wants kids, and who lives a sober lifestyle. That’s it. That’s the entire list. Along with being there for my ex, my mom, my daughter, my son. That’s the whole job. It’s actually very simple. If your own mind keeps dragging you into fear about money, love, and the future, and you want help choosing something other than fear, schedule a one-on-one call with me and we’ll work on it together.

Right before bed, I got a text from the woman from massage school that I had sex with a couple of weeks ago. I had messaged her the night before, and she replied saying she struggled after reading my message, that she felt shocked and hurt by how insensitive it was, and that she could offer feedback about my interactions. I told her I appreciated her following up and that I agreed I was wrong to send the message the way I did. I reminded her that on November 5 I had sent a message saying I enjoyed our time but didn’t feel we were a great fit beyond a physical connection.

I told her that if I were to send that message again, I would be more direct and honest. I explained that there is a lot I like about her, and that the single critical issue for me is her marijuana use. That was the primary reason I sent the message and decided I didn’t want to continue what we started. I told her that as someone who is sober and doesn’t use marijuana, plant medicine, or any mind-altering substances at all, even the smell of marijuana is a major turnoff for me. I explained that it didn’t bother me as much at first, but by Sunday morning—after we’d had sex a couple times—my mind was clear again and it bothered me a lot.

I told her I was afraid that if I continued seeing her, I’d reach a point where I couldn’t turn back, and I might end up compromising myself—either eventually using marijuana again or pressuring her to quit, which wouldn’t be fair. I was trying to explain my internal experience honestly, not to attack her. She responded with a short message telling me to stop messaging her with hurtful things, saying “boundaries,” and “ouch.”

That response immediately kicked something loose in me. It brought me right back to how hurt I’d felt at my yoga studio the other day. Here was another situation where someone was enthusiastic about me, offended by a generic, polite message, and then even more hurt when I told the truth. And suddenly I could see the pattern clearly, including my own role in it. It left me thinking that, collectively, we really need to stop being such whiny little bitches all the time. Oh, you hurt my feelings. Oh, boundaries. Ouch. And then I immediately saw myself in that too. Oh, look what happened to me on Monday. Poor me. She was rude. She was disrespectful. Keep your relationships platonic. I got so fucking hurt over it.

The thought crossed my mind that, yeah, maybe if the girl at the front desk had liked me, she would have used the phone number and contacted me. That’s not how it played out. And instead of spiraling in resentment about that, it felt like a call to action. Not to harden. Not to withdraw. Not to hate people. But to get clearer. More direct. More grounded. To stop trying to soften truth to protect feelings, and also to stop being surprised when truth doesn’t land the way I hope it will. To take responsibility for my part without collapsing into shame or self-pity. That’s the work right now.

Instead of being so goddamn butthurt all the time—so offended, so whiny, so obsessed with protecting our fragile little selves—what if we actually treated life’s feedback as an opportunity? What if we thanked people for being clear with us? I was clear with her. I told her directly that it’s her marijuana usage. If she didn’t smoke marijuana, I would be genuinely enthusiastic about continuing to see her. We’re compatible in a lot of other ways. But marijuana is a hard no for me. It’s disgusting to me. And of course, the response is that’s hurtful, don’t tell me that, I should be able to be exactly how I want to be and someone should accept me as I am. And maybe someone will. That someone just isn’t me.

That’s the call to action—for me. Stop being so goddamn butthurt. Stop acting like clarity is cruelty. I’m going back to my yoga studio tomorrow for yoga. Enough of this avoidance bullshit. Quit being a whiny little bitch, Jerry. Get your ass to yoga. It’s good for you. There are people there who are friends. So what if that girl at the front desk said what she said? It doesn’t matter.

If anything, I took the lesson from it. I realized I should have had a full letter in every book from the beginning—my phone number, my intentions, exactly what I’m asking for—so nothing is left open to interpretation. No ambiguity. No guessing. No room for people to project their own stories onto me. And who knows—maybe the woman I messaged will take the feedback to heart. Maybe she’ll reconsider her marijuana use. Or maybe she won’t. That part isn’t my concern. What is my concern is noticing how easy it is for people—including me—to default to I’m hurt, my boundaries, everyone’s violating me, while continuing to do the exact same things and expecting different results. At some point, it’s worth asking: maybe it’s you. Maybe you’re the one who needs to change.

I changed. I give books away. Every book now has a letter inside it with my phone number, clearly stating what I’m looking for—help finding a place to live, help making money, and dating. It’s not personal. It’s not targeted. It’s not some covert attempt to pick up one specific person. It’s obviously there for everyone. It even explicitly asks for advice. That alone removes so much of the weirdness and suspicion. No one has to feel like I’m singling them out or being predatory. No one needs to “protect other girls.” It’s all out in the open. And that feels good. It feels clean.

I’m actually grateful this woman messaged me, because it forced me to check my own reactions. Yes, it’s okay to have your feelings hurt. That’s human. But it’s not okay to walk around acting like everyone else is fucked up when you’re the one with the power to change how you show up. A lot of the ways people respond to me are because of me. That’s not shame—that’s agency. I feel solid about my dating intentions. I know what I want. I’m clear about it. And I’m learning how to communicate that in a way that’s honest, impersonal, and grounded, without putting emotional pressure on anyone. It’s amazing how someone’s reaction can simultaneously confirm why you don’t want to date them and show you exactly what you need to adjust in yourself. I’m going to bed feeling hopeful. I learned something valuable tonight. I’m ready to move forward tomorrow.

If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.

Building My Army of Tiny Books

Originally published November 4, 2025.

This is my journal entry from November 4, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Divorce Day — my real, unedited days, published in order.

I bought a speed dating ticket today—age range twenty-four to thirty-nine. I was born June 15, 1984, so depending on how you do the math, this might be cutting it close. Some people would say that makes me forty-one. Others might say, what if I identify as thirty-nine? Based on what ChatGPT told me, the logic is simple: just go for it and see what happens. It’s $25. The potential upside massively outweighs the downside, so why not try? The event is at 2:00 p.m. on Saturday, which feels like a decent time to show up, sober, and take myself to the Whiskey Exchange to meet some women.

I’ve also been thinking about these diaries and whether I want them to be funny or more straightforward. The humor definitely makes things harder to edit, or at least I imagine it does since I haven’t fully tested that theory yet. I probably got carried away with the swearing and chaos in 9 Hours Later, but that was part of the experiment. Maybe this book will be different. Or maybe it won’t. We’ll see.

Today is Tuesday. I got up and took the kids to school, and afterward I found myself thinking about the girl who came over a few nights ago. My first reaction was pretty clear: she smokes too much pot and complains too much, and I don’t really see her as someone I want to pursue seriously. Then she started texting me about reading my books, and I caught myself realizing how much my own desire was driving the question of whether to invite her over again. It made me reflect on the idea that our bodies have multiple brains, that each organ has its own intelligence contributing to the whole, and it was not hard to tell which one was in charge in that moment.

At the same time, if there’s a woman who enjoys my company and I enjoy hers, without needing an elaborate ritual around it, then why not let it be what it is? Meanwhile, I can hit every speed dating event I can find and see if there’s someone I connect with even more who likes me just as much or more. In the meantime, I might as well enjoy the company I already have and let it be mutually beneficial. A real connection in front of me is worth a whole lot more than a perfectly curated dating profile or a speculative speed dating night. A bird in the hand carries real weight.

After dropping the kids off, I also wondered whether tonight might finally be the night I try the nude men’s yoga class at my yoga studio, something I’ve been thinking about for a long time. That thought definitely pulled me back into my own head for a moment. In the end, though, I went to the 9:00 a.m. yoga class instead. One of my yoga instructors taught it, which was nice as usual. The woman from yoga set her mat up behind me and said hi. We didn’t have much time to talk beyond that, and I’m not sure when we’ll end up in the same class again, but at least we’re on each other’s radar now.

After yoga, I took my car down to a nearby body shop because the one thing that genuinely pisses me off about my Toyota Corolla is how ghetto the paint looks, all ripped off and tired. I went in to see what it would cost, and they told me $650 to paint the entire car, any color I want. I wasn’t prepared for that decision on the spot, so I did what I’ve started doing more and more—I asked ChatGPT. I told it what it already knows about me and said I wanted a color that wasn’t normal, not your standard car color. It suggested purple, saying that based on what it knows about me, that would fit my vibe. I asked whether it should be lighter or darker, and it leaned toward a darker, more metallic purple.

A worker at the body shop, who was helping me there, mixed up a metallic dark purple on the spot, and it looked exactly right. You could clearly see that it was purple—it didn’t read as black—but it had this glossy, shiny depth to it that felt perfect. I signed the paperwork and paid. They only take cash and cashier’s checks, which I actually love. No credit card fees, no chargebacks. If more businesses did that, they’d cut out a lot of unnecessary middlemen—and at this point, middle AI too.

By the time that was done, an older friend came to pick me up in his Mercury Grand Marquis. He offered to let me borrow the car while mine is getting painted, which is huge. He drove me back to his place, handed me the keys, and plugged in a little device he has that resets the check engine light. He told me it cost about $40 and lets him check whether the issue looks serious before worrying about it, then clears the light. I drove his car home feeling grateful and also excited because I suddenly had a solid stretch of uninterrupted time to work on my books.

I thought we might work on his book together, but he wasn’t in the mood, which was fine. I got home and went straight into publishing mode. I worked on uploading my crypto book, getting the cover designed, and going through the remaining transcripts for my third diary book. I landed on the title Sober Through Separation, which documents my journey through divorce and will serve as the follow-up to The Kind Divorce. I processed the rest of the transcripts for that book through ChatGPT and also ordered proof copies for Is Bitcoin One Big Lie, which I finished today as well. If everything goes as planned, I’ll have two different twenty-five-page books arriving as proofs on Friday, and I’ll get to see how I feel about this shorter format in physical form. If you’ve been sitting on a pile of writing and want help turning it into actual finished books the way I’m doing here, that’s one of my favorite things to work on with people—book a one-on-one call with me and we’ll map out your publishing plan.

I genuinely love the idea of having a large collection of books across many different subjects. My public business phone has been blowing up because ICP’s price climbed back over $5 after dipping below $3. People are going nuts, posting about me, asking me to come back and make videos. I’m flattered, but no thanks. I’m happy to publish a crypto book or two, but the video environment feels gross to me now. I love that, aside from that one week when I briefly created and then deleted the St. Pete Speaks podcast, I’ve had almost six months off from making videos—and I don’t miss it.

Doing books like this feels so much better. There’s a physical book I can hand to someone, an audiobook, and a Kindle version. The audiobook should be available almost everywhere once it’s approved and actually distributed through the audio platform I’m using, whenever that finally happens. This way of creating feels cleaner, calmer, and far more aligned with how I want to live and work now.

I’m still waiting—now more than a week—for I Was Famous on the Internet to show up on Audible. That’s fine. Once these books are up, they’re up indefinitely, and that’s one of the things I love most about books. They just sit there, quietly existing, waiting to be discovered. If I crank out a couple hundred books this year, that should work out very well for me over the long term. I imagine a future version of myself with more than a thousand books published and thousands of hours of audiobooks available. That idea feels incredible.

These diary books are genuinely therapeutic for me, even though I wasn’t very enthusiastic about recording this entry. I felt tired and vaguely resistant, like I could just skip it and nobody would know. But I didn’t. It feels similar to a Tenth Step in Alcoholics Anonymous—doing the inventory even when you don’t feel like it, because that’s the point. After grinding through book work all afternoon, I took the Mercury Grand Marquis to pick the kids up from school. Around the same time, a guy sent me $300 in crypto to talk on Sunday. He’s been wanting to discuss ICP with me for months, ever since before I deleted everything. He had the money ready and sent it straight to the Coinbase address I gave him. In a period where I haven’t been making much money, I’ll take that as a clear signal from the universe. Here’s $300. Maybe more people will text me after reading my books and want to talk. Maybe I’ll charge a couple hundred dollars for an hour on Zoom. Who knows. I’m not going to advertise it openly anymore. I’ll just keep my phone number on JerryBanfield.com and let people reach out directly.

The kids were a little put off by the car at first, but then they started enjoying how different it was. By the time we got home, they were having fun and complaining about the smell at the same time. I went early to the meeting because I wanted to talk to a woman I know. She’s in her mid-fifties, someone I’ve known for years. She’s attractive, and as far as I know, she isn’t dating anyone. We had a nice conversation, and I reminded her that I’d given her my book a few months ago. I told her about everything that’s changed since we last talked—dropping massage school, getting divorced, moving out, writing a bunch of books. She listened carefully, asked thoughtful questions, and updated me on her own situation.

The meeting itself was all men except for her, and she shared a couple of times, which was nice. When the meeting ended and she was walking away, she told me that if I’m ever feeling down, I should make sure to call her. That landed. I’d already been thinking about whether she might want a little piece of me. She’s pretty, mature, grounded—those are all strong qualities. I know one of the guys she dated before, which makes me think I might look like a solid option, assuming she’s okay with me seeing other women too.

At this point my dating life suddenly felt wide open, and honestly that sounded fine to me. I’ll probably text her tomorrow and ask if she wants to do something. She mentioned going to one of the art museums downtown, so I’m thinking of asking whether she’s been to another one or would like to go. When we meet in person, I plan to be clear. We’ve known each other for years, and we’ve been friendly for a long time, but I want to say it directly: I’m interested in dating you. I’d be open to having a relationship, as long as it’s polyamorous. I’m happy to offer what I think you may have been missing in your life. I catch myself mid-thought and laugh—there it is, edit that part out. Still, I enjoy watching for signs and seeing what manifests. Whatever happens, I’ll keep documenting it here. If you’ve been circling someone for years without ever saying what you actually want, it can help to rehearse that honesty with someone first—schedule a private call with me and we’ll talk it through.

The woman who came over Saturday night is another reason I might have to start using names soon, just to keep everyone straight. Or maybe the better approach is to make sure I talk about everyone respectfully enough that I can use their real names. Who knows—maybe they’ll read this one day. Or their future husbands or children might. Or maybe nobody will ever read this. Maybe just my kids. Maybe my grandkids or great-grandkids. Maybe in two thousand years people will read this and say, here was the first man who turned his entire life into daily autobiographies. On a tough day, maybe someone will think, Jerry loves me. Completely ridiculous, right?

After the AA meeting, I came back to my place and got ready to take my son to the tennis club for the ball machine reservation I made. I won’t have any other chances this week to take him there, so I was grateful everything lined up. We got there a little before 6:00 p.m. and left a little after 7:00 p.m. We emptied and refilled the ball machine four times. My son hit his usual share of balls out of the court, but his accuracy seemed higher than it’s ever been. He had a lot more balls land in and far fewer misses, and he looked like he was genuinely having fun. We even switched sides this time. I set the ball machine to fire wide left and wide right, and since it has seven shots, he got the extra one—the double. I practiced the strokes my tennis coach taught me yesterday and felt really good about how consistent my own hitting was.

After tennis, I brought my son over to my mom’s house, where I’d arranged for my daughter to come over as well. My daughter and my mom had a great time together. Earlier, during the break I had between the meeting and the tennis club, I wrote a letter to my brother to reconnect with him. I apologized for being so judgmental and critical of his life and told him that after going through my own divorce and dating again, I can see his situation with much more compassion. I also acknowledged that my views on alcohol had become extreme—that I didn’t want to be around it at all—and that this was part of why I didn’t come to his wedding. I kept the letter short, just under two pages, one page front and back. I printed it out and gave it to my daughter to bring to my mom so she could read it first. I want her opinion before I mail it.

She probably wouldn’t have liked the letter I sent to my brother in the past. If I’d had her proofread that one, she definitely would have told me not to send it. But that’s okay.

A little after 7:30 p.m., with a bag of popcorn in hand, I took the kids back to my ex-wife’s place to do bedtime. It felt especially good to have a full night with them because I know how the rest of the week looks. Tomorrow night I’ll be out at a speed dating event and will miss bedtime. Thursday will be tennis, a quick shower, a fast bedtime, and then getting ready for the woman from Sarasota to come over. Friday I’ll be out at a kirtan event with a local spiritual community, which means missing bedtime again. Saturday, my ex-wife and the kids will be gone on her birthday glamping trip. Because of all that, I’m genuinely grateful for tonight. I took the time. I spent hours with the kids. I took them to school, picked them up, and was fully present with them this evening. I know that’s enough.

At the same time, I’m really enjoying how much I’m getting out into the world, going to new places, and trying new things. I’ve been meaning to get my car painted for at least a year, and I finally did it, in part because I want my car to look better for dating. The divorce has been hard at times, but it’s also pushed a lot of expansion and movement into my life. I honestly think my ex-wife and I both wanted this separation because we both want growth. Because of that, I’m going to be very hesitant to enter another monogamous relationship unless the woman is truly exceptional and willing to offer everything I want. I used to be more critical of polyamory, but right now it’s starting to sound exactly right.

I can easily picture having several relationships, each one its own night of the week, and then a couple of nights to myself. I want intimacy and connection, and I want partners who genuinely want the same. Choosing not to masturbate has changed things for me. I feel a much stronger need for other people. I think a lot of our struggles come from doing things alone that would be more enjoyable with someone else. That shift has made me far more aware of how much I want real connection rather than something solitary, and I’m genuinely excited about it.

Later tonight, I finished proofing my third diary book, and it’s ready to upload. Hopefully in the next day or two I’ll be able to order a proof copy of that as well. After that, I looked through speed dating events and decided to sign up for the twenty-four to thirty-nine age range event downtown. We’ll see if I get away with it. The perfectionist, rule-following part of me says I shouldn’t—that it’s outside the age range and they might turn me away. Then the other part of me says, so what? If I show up and they say, “We said twenty-four to thirty-nine, you’re forty-one, you’ve got to go,” with no refund, that’s fine. It’s $25 and maybe thirty minutes of my time. Not a big deal. But if I get to sit down and speed date a bunch of people in that range—and maybe another forty-one-year-old woman sneaks in there too—that’s more than fine with me. What I have to gain is far greater than what I have to lose.

What’s hard sometimes is that our brains don’t calculate risk very accurately. There might be a relatively small potential loss—like the risk of wasting $25 and getting rejected from an afternoon at the Whiskey Exchange while I’m sober—and yet my mind treats it like a major threat. That’s a pretty low cost. Realistically, the worst-case scenario is that they say no thanks. Of course, my brain immediately tries to spice it up by inventing more dramatic outcomes, like a woman throwing a drink in my face when she finds out I’m forty-one instead of thirty-nine. But that’s obviously unrealistic, and the odds of something like that happening are extremely low. If your brain blows up the downside of a risk the way mine does and it’s quietly keeping you from trying something, talking it out can shrink it back to its real size—book a one-on-one call with me and we’ll weigh it together.

The event organizers probably aren’t looking to turn someone away simply because they’re forty-one at a thirty-nine-and-under event. They just want to keep the age range reasonably tight. They don’t want someone who’s sixty there, or maybe even fifty. Forty-one is close enough that it’s at least debatable. The downside is small, and the upside is potentially enormous. What if I meet the woman of my dreams there? That’s a very high upside. And yet, I didn’t calculate it that way at first. I looked at this event several times and told myself I couldn’t go because I’m forty-one. Then it hit me: maybe I can go. Maybe I can’t. I don’t actually know until I try.

I thought I’d gotten away with it until I clicked to pay and the next screen asked for my birth date. At that point, I knew I wasn’t going to lie. I’m not going to pretend I’m thirty-nine and then pull out my driver’s license and have someone get pissed because I lied. I’m just going to be honest. I gave my real birth date. I’m not lying, but I am rounding. I’m identifying as thirty-nine for this event. I’m healthy, I look good, and there’s no real reason I couldn’t be thirty-nine. People regularly assume I’m in my early thirties anyway.

I’m glad this is recorded. I’m also realizing that maybe some of these entries can be a bit shorter. The longer they are, the more work it takes to process the transcripts and proofread them, and the more effort it takes to publish each book. If I’m going to be alive publishing books every day, efficiency matters. I think we’ve done enough for today. See you tomorrow.

If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.

The Story Has Claimed Me

Originally published October 19, 2025.

This is my journal entry from October 19, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Learning to Live Alone Again — my real, unedited days, published in order.

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I just had an excellent reading with a psychic, and I want to make sure I remember everything—especially since I paid $140 for it and tipped another $60. I had her start cold without telling her anything about me, and I was impressed. Her readings were accurate enough to catch my attention. Once she’d laid out her first impressions, I gave her a few more concrete details about my work and dating life, and the session went even deeper.

One of the main takeaways was that everything in my life is coming together, but there’s a delay—almost like all the pieces are in motion, just waiting to click into place. She told me that with dating, I need to be officially divorced from my ex-wife before I’ll truly have space in my life for someone new. That made sense. With work, she suggested I might consider submitting some of my books to a traditional publisher while continuing to self-publish the majority on my own. That way, I’d gain access to bookstores and wider distribution while still maintaining the creative control and independence I value.

That was the point that stirred the most resistance in me. When she said it, I felt reactive because I’ve already published I Was Famous on the Internet, and I see that book as something local, something to give away personally. Still, she had a point. I have plenty of other manuscripts that might be better suited for traditional publication.

The psychic also gave me reassurance about dating. She said I don’t need to chase or force anything. The right person will show up naturally in the spaces I already inhabit—AA, yoga, or wherever I’m genuinely being myself. The message was clear: there’s no need to go out hunting for it, no need to “pick up” women. All I have to do is stay present and pay attention, and what I want will come.

She told me this period of my life is especially valuable for writing. That the time I have now—this particular chapter, this house I’m living in—is meant for me to pour everything into my books. It’s a gift, a stretch of creative freedom I won’t always have. That perspective clicked. Instead of longing for what’s next, I should be grateful for the time I have right now to write, to build something lasting. If you’ve got a creative stretch like this in front of you and want someone to think it through with, you can schedule a private call with me and we’ll figure out how to build something lasting with it.

The psychic also encouraged me to reach out to bookstores beyond St. Petersburg—places like Tampa and Sarasota. She said to think bigger, to share my books locally but also regionally, getting them into as many hands as possible. That advice resonated deeply. It’s not about hustling or striving; it’s about continuing to do what I love, staying grateful, and trusting that everything else will unfold on its own.

I ordered another 111 copies of I Was Famous on the Internet today because it really feels like my alpha book—the one meant to lead the way, to be given out first, the one that best represents who I am and what I’ve lived through.

The psychic also encouraged me to start keeping a dream journal the moment I wake up. She said my guides are communicating most clearly through my dreams, but within five minutes of waking, much of that information tends to slip away. That makes sense. So I’m planning to create a routine where I wake up more gently and earlier, keeping a microphone or my phone right beside the bed. If the dictation app works well enough, I’ll record my dreams immediately. I could even turn them into books, or include them in this daily autobiography series. The key is to capture those messages before they vanish, because that subconscious communication is valuable.

The psychic herself is very pretty, and I told her so. I also mentioned that I’m interested in developing my own psychic abilities and asked if I could read her a little. My first impression was that she’s in a relationship that might be more complicated than she lets on. She told me her last relationship had been complicated, but not this one. Still, I sensed some lingering uncertainty, like there was more to the story than she consciously saw or would share with someone she just met. I also had the feeling that this relationship was fairly new, which might suggest she’s in the early stages of something long-term. Regardless, it was fun to play around with that intuitive side and to share my impressions with her. She encouraged me to keep practicing by asking other people if I could read them too, just to experiment and learn through experience.

I had so much fun going to see the psychic today. Most people in my situation—with no active income at the moment—probably wouldn’t drop $200 on a psychic reading on a Sunday afternoon. But to me, it felt perfectly aligned. That experience was more valuable and fulfilling than just about anything else I could have done with that time or money. It was stimulating, grounding, and reminded me to be grateful for this space in my life—to write books, explore ideas, and trust the process.

Her reading opened my mind to the idea of traditional publishing. Maybe having around 25 percent of my books go through a traditional publisher could be ideal, especially now that I’ve already established several independent publishing workflows. I still feel some hesitation about the time it might take to query agents, but if that effort could lead to a $5,000, $10,000, $15,000, or even $20,000 advance for a book, it would absolutely be worth it. It wouldn’t take much to study which kinds of books agents are currently seeking and intentionally write one that fits. I doubt many authors approach it that way, but I could. If you’re weighing a big move with your own work and want to think it through out loud, you can schedule a one-on-one call with me and we’ll talk it over together.

The psychic also saw my divorce proceeding smoothly. She picked up on the difference in the energy between my ex-wife and me—that it wasn’t confrontational, more calm and cooperative. I appreciated that she noticed. That’s exactly the kind of energy I want to maintain through the process.

Toward the end, she said she saw life taking me farther from St. Pete. When she mentioned that, I felt immediate resistance. She envisioned me living in Tampa or somewhere about that far away over a bridge next year, and that idea initially horrified me. I lived there back in 2010 and 2011, and it’s not far, but the thought of moving away from my kids feels wrong. If I were in Tampa, I couldn’t see them nearly as often, and my mother would also be harder to visit. Still, I’m trying to stay open to possibilities.

Maybe there could be an opportunity that would make it worth it—like meeting someone I really connect with who happens to live in Tampa, or a new business opportunity that takes root there. I could imagine moving if it felt right, if the connection was strong enough. If I met a woman in Tampa who had her own place, supported my work, and wanted more kids, that could be a beautiful new chapter. Even then, I’d still be a great dad to the two kids I already have. It might just mean shifting how I see them—spending whole weekends together in Tampa instead of catching brief moments throughout the week.

That possibility, as much as it challenges my comfort zone, also feels like growth. Maybe that’s the deeper message the psychic was picking up on: that change isn’t a loss—it’s the next step.

I’m really grateful for how much this reading opened my mind. It reminded me that the future could be far more fun, adventurous, and exciting than I can currently imagine. I don’t want to shut that possibility down. I want to stay open—to let life surprise me—and in the meantime, fully enjoy this precious stretch of time I have to write.

Six hours after seeing the psychic, I finished recording the first chapter of what I believe could be the best book to submit to a publisher. I spent about an hour researching, checking QueryTracker to learn how submissions work, and asking ChatGPT for guidance. I laid out all my current book ideas, and its conclusion was clear: my best chance at landing a traditional publishing deal would be through fiction. Nonfiction usually requires credentials or a large following, while fiction simply needs an exceptional concept that can sell. That reasoning made sense, and I had a strong feeling it was right.

It’s possible I could have pitched I Was Famous on the Internet to a publisher, but that book feels too personal and timely to wait years for release. Fiction, on the other hand, can take its time. I want that kind of book to reach a wider audience, even if it takes years to publish.

I’ve had an idea for a fiction book for a while now, loosely inspired by the yoga crush I had at my yoga studio. The story would unfold across multiple timelines. In one, I tell the girl I don’t want to see her anymore at Sunday yoga, and she stops showing up at Friday yoga, and the crush dissolves completely. In another timeline, I don’t say that—we sleep together, and the affair leads to chaos, spiraling my life out of control until it ends in self-destruction. Then there’s a third version, where everything happens honorably: I get divorced and then begin a genuine relationship with her.

To ground it all, I’d connect it to my real-life experiences with the dispatcher, as I wrote about in Officer Banfield. The story could open on a powerful, high-stakes moment that would immediately pull the reader in: the main character leaves his body at the start and watches what happens next. That becomes the emotional foundation of the novel—watching how life unfolds after death and seeing the ripple effects of every choice.

Over the years of observing, my character would realize the magnitude of what was lost and would finally get the chance to go back and live again. The book would then explore different versions of his life through branching timelines: one where he stays married to my ex-wife and they raise their kids; another where he cheats and destroys everything; another where he learns from those mistakes and chooses differently. It would all build to a finale where he sees hundreds of alternate versions of himself, each one living out a different scenario.

In the end, he would stand in awe, realizing that when all those versions are added up, he’s looking at thousands of years of life—just from the possibilities within this one lifetime. The story would deliver the idea that our existence is infinite, that we can relive and rewrite our stories endlessly, and that every choice we make ripples through eternity.

It’s an ambitious idea, but I can feel its power already. It combines everything I care about—emotion, spirituality, redemption, love, and the deeper mystery of consciousness. It’s exactly the kind of book I would want to read and the one I most want to write.

While reading through QueryTracker tonight, I came across a literary agent named Hillary Jacobson. She works at CAA, one of the biggest agencies in the world. In her biography, she wrote that she’s always searching for writing that provokes a strong emotional reaction, adds an important perspective to cultural conversation, or challenges the reader’s beliefs. That line jumped out at me because it perfectly describes what I want my fiction book to do.

This book will check every one of those boxes. It will provoke emotion, challenge beliefs, and offer a completely new perspective on love, marriage, and morality—especially the question of whether it’s possible to have a happy divorce when you’ve found someone better, and to do it in a way that’s honest and honorable. I love exploring those kinds of themes, the ones that make people squirm a little and reflect on their own choices. How much fun is it to look at the infinite number of scenarios we can live out and see them all as valid experiments in learning and growth?

I’m so glad I started recording the book tonight. I’ve been euphorically high—naturally—ever since the reading with the psychic. It’s like something shifted in my perception, as if I could suddenly see the bigger picture that my mental algorithms had been ignoring. I’ve felt more relaxed, inspired, and willing to just go for it. This fiction book has massive energy behind it.

I even talked to Google’s AI about it, and it agreed that this story could have real commercial potential. ChatGPT estimated that if the concept catches an agent’s attention, I could get an advance somewhere between $10,000 and $40,000, especially if multiple agents were interested. I can imagine it—getting a $20,000 check for a fiction book within a few months. That would be incredible. I could keep self-publishing my current books while that one went through the traditional process, and the success of one would lift the others.

Although, I’m not sure I could write another novel like this. This one comes directly from my raw life experience—it’s an emotional and spiritual composite of everything I’ve lived through. I don’t know if I could just fabricate something equally immersive out of thin air. Then again, I haven’t even finished this one yet, haven’t queried agents, haven’t gotten a publisher, so what do I really know about what else I’m capable of?

What I do know is that the idea of having a traditional publisher feels deeply validating. I love the thought of getting a book advance, earning it out, and then continuing to receive royalties for years. ChatGPT even said this concept could become a cult classic. I just finished The Midnight Library this week, and while I enjoyed it, I genuinely believe my book has the potential to be more powerful and emotional—less philosophical distance, more lived intensity. That book was good. The one I’m working on could be great.

Right now, it feels like the story has claimed me. I’m in a relationship with it. It’s intimate, consuming, and I know the only way forward is to fully express it—to get every bit of it onto the page. This is my love affair now: the act of writing itself. When a project claims you like this, it helps to talk with someone who gets it, so you can book a private call with me and talk it through together, where I share how I turn raw ideas into finished books.

And still, after seeing the psychic today, I can’t help but feel inspired by how beautiful she was—inside and out. That’s exactly the kind of woman I want in my life. Yesterday, I was wondering whether I should just start casually hooking up again, but tonight I feel clear. I don’t want random encounters. I want someone extraordinary—a woman who’s not just beautiful, but perfect for me, completely excited and wild about me. Until that happens, I’m content to sit here in my house, alone with my microphone, dictating books and making love to the work itself.

This morning, I got a message from my daughter a little after 7 a.m., letting me know she was up. I headed down to the house and spent about an hour on the couch with the kids, snuggling and reading the first Investigators book to my son. It was a calm, cozy start to the day—the kind of simple moment that feels worth everything.

After that, I went to play tennis with a guy who’s actually more of a beginner than me, which felt refreshing. Over the last year, I’ve almost always been hitting with players who are better than I am, and while that’s great for improving, it’s also nice to play with someone who isn’t quite as advanced. It gave me a boost of confidence. I practiced my serves, blasting a few that must’ve hit 80 or 90 miles per hour, and several of them actually went in. Every time I landed one of those hard serves for an ace, it felt incredible. Still, I wanted to make sure my partner was having fun too. We didn’t play games—just hit rallies and traded serves back and forth. It was relaxed and satisfying, exactly what I needed.

Afterward, I went home, rinsed off in a cold shower, threw on fresh clothes, and made it to the 10 a.m. yoga class. A small part of me wondered if my “second wife” might be there, but she wasn’t. I ended up talking to the instructor about dating, and she told me she’s not dating anyone and doesn’t plan to. Between work and raising her child as a single mom, she said she simply doesn’t have time.

The two women working the front desk that morning were both beautiful, and naturally, I thought about trying to flirt or see if there was mutual interest. But I quickly realized that I’d rather not attempt anything at my yoga studio unless I know there’s a high chance of success. This isn’t like chatting up someone at the grocery store or out in public where you can walk away and never see them again. It’s part of my daily life, my community, and I’ve learned from experience that things can get awkward fast when dating and shared spaces overlap.

If I do decide to date someone connected to my yoga studio, I’d prefer to know they’re single and open first. Someone like one of the studio’s co-owners would probably know who’s available and who might be a good fit. She could help me navigate it respectfully. I didn’t get the chance to talk to her today, but I’d like to before making any moves on anyone in the studio. I genuinely value this place. I’ve already paid $1,000 for my yearly membership, good through March, and I don’t want to risk making it uncomfortable for myself or anyone else.

After yoga, I had a great talk with a friend and gave him the letter I wrote for his review. He looked it over, and I told him I’d quoted him on the idea about surprise, which he seemed happy about. He said he thought of something funny but would tell me next time. I left that conversation feeling good—like the day had played out exactly as it needed to.

Reflecting on everything, I can see how much this aligns with what the psychic told me yesterday. I don’t need to go around trying to be a pickup artist or chase women for the sake of it. I just want to meet someone naturally, in a joyful and organic way. I want real connection, not awkwardness or superficial games.

Later, I had a nice conversation with a friend from yoga and her partner. I’d never met him before. She had always stood out to me, partly because of something that happened in one of our first yoga classes together. We were lying on our sides doing a stretch, and at one point, her foot touched my leg. Instead of pulling away or apologizing, she just let it rest there for a moment. It felt so natural, so easy, even though in today’s world, touching someone can feel like breaking an unspoken rule. That simple, unbothered gesture said a lot about her—how comfortable she is in her own body and how at peace she seems to be with connection in general. I remember loving that moment. It felt human, unguarded, and rare.

I talked with a friend from yoga and her partner again today. They’d just gotten back from a two-week trip to India, so I asked what stood out the most—what felt really different compared to life here. They said that where they stayed, there were no trash cans at all. I asked, “What do you mean, no trash cans?” and a friend from yoga said, “People just throw trash on the ground.” She told me there was garbage everywhere—on the beaches, in the water, even inside the temples where people walk barefoot.

That blew my mind. She said the area they visited wasn’t even a big city, but a smaller, supposedly cleaner place, and it was still covered in trash. At that point I thought, Well, I can go ahead and cross India off my list of places to visit, because that sounds disgusting. She said they simply don’t have the infrastructure to deal with waste properly. My thought was, How does that make sense? Even without infrastructure, people could still choose not to litter. I couldn’t believe people would just live surrounded by that much filth.

It made me think about how many people here complain about how awful the United States is. Most of them have probably never been somewhere that doesn’t even have basic sanitation. We take so many things for granted—clean streets, trash collection, drinkable tap water. People who criticize this country would be begging for those comforts if they ever saw what it’s like in places that don’t have them. For all our problems, this is an amazing country.

After yoga, I headed home with about an hour to spare before my psychic reading. I spent the time texting everyone I know about my new book, I Was Famous on the Internet. I’d just seen that it hit the “Top New Release” list in the Computer and Technology Biographies category, which made me proud as hell. I blasted the link to almost everyone in my phone. Most people didn’t reply, but that didn’t bother me. My dating book had already taught me that it’s my job to send messages, not to control who responds. When I’m excited about something, it’s my responsibility to share it.

Then it was time for the psychic reading—the one I described earlier. When I arrived downtown, I couldn’t believe what I saw. The woman I sometimes see downtown was there again. Four days earlier, on Wednesday, she had been standing outside in front of my car when I got dropped off by an Uber, saying that God had told her I’d be there. Apparently, God told her again that I’d be downtown today getting a psychic reading, even though I’d never been to this store for a psychic reading before.

I parked my car and nearly laughed out loud when I saw the woman I sometimes see downtown walking right in front of it. My first thought was, Okay, I already gave her $20 four days ago. I’m about to drop at least $140 on a psychic reading, so maybe I’m off the hook this time. But she walked ahead of me toward the same shop, and when she stopped right in front of the door, I couldn’t avoid her. She didn’t see me at first, and I could have ducked around her, but instead, I walked straight up to her and handed her another $20.

“Holy shit,” I said. “You really are tapped into God.” Then I joked that maybe God could send her someone else to give her $20 next time, since, rounded to the nearest thousand, I’m making $0 a month right now. Still, I told her that if I get one of those $40,000 book advances ChatGPT was talking about, I’d happily give her $20 a hundred times over.

After the reading, which was amazing and set the tone for everything I wrote earlier, I headed to a local play a friend was performing in. She’s the one who embroidered my shirt recently. I’d texted her earlier in the day to send her a copy of my book, and in our conversation, she mentioned the play. I immediately bought a ticket and went to see it.

It felt like the perfect way to close out the night—seeing a friend perform live, right after a day full of synchronicities, creativity, and gratitude.

This afternoon, I drove out to see the local play a friend was performing in. I arrived at what I thought was the right location about thirty minutes early and paid three dollars for two hours of parking. After getting out of the car, I noticed a sign that said the event was actually ten minutes away from where I was standing. I laughed to myself and decided to count that parking fee as a small donation to the city.

I drove to the real venue—a local glass-art gallery—and when I walked inside, I was blown away. It was a massive glass art gallery filled with hundreds of stunning blown glass pieces. The light bounced off the sculptures like rainbows, every color imaginable swirling inside the glass. The most expensive piece I saw was priced around $40,000, while smaller works were a few hundred. There were even some beautiful glass necklaces for under $100. I wandered around the gallery for a while, grateful that I’d arrived early enough to take it all in before the play began.

When the show started, my friend appeared right away to greet the audience. It was an immersive performance that took us through different areas of the gallery, with actors stepping right up to us and interacting in character. Some handed out small letters, others offered candy. At one point, we found ourselves in a bar scene where one of the performers handed out little plastic shot glasses filled with what looked like margaritas.

For a split second, I froze. The drink was right there in my hand when they were passed out, and the old part of me—the alcoholic that still lives quietly somewhere inside—perked up. But I set the glass down on the table in front of me and didn’t touch it again. I’m grateful for all the years of sobriety that built the muscle memory to make that kind of decision instinctively. If I hadn’t done the work, that might’ve been the moment I lost it. If you’re carrying years of sobriety, or just starting to build that muscle, you can set up a call with me and we’ll talk through what staying ready looks like in your own life.

A few minutes later, we moved to another section of the gallery, leaving my untouched margarita behind. A part of me wondered if another alcoholic in the crowd would drink it. Honestly, I kind of hoped they did. There was something funny and tender about that thought—like passing along a little temptation that no longer owned me.

The rest of the play was just as engaging, with different characters, shifting scenes, and the kind of storytelling that keeps you present the whole time. Before I knew it, five o’clock had arrived. I got back in my car and headed home feeling energized and fulfilled. I’d gone to two completely new places today—the psychic reading and the play—and both experiences left me feeling alive and curious.

My ex-wife and the kids were gone all day, so I hadn’t seen them since early morning. I sat on the couch, ate some hummus, and opened my laptop to research more about literary agents and book submissions. That’s when I found Hillary Jacobson at CAA, which led me to the realization that my fiction book idea is the best route for breaking into traditional publishing.

As I dug deeper, I felt a strong wave of gratitude. I have time right now—weeks of uninterrupted space to write, edit, and submit this novel. Not everyone gets that kind of window in life, and I can feel how sacred it is.

I also kept thinking about something the psychic said—that my life might look completely different next year. She saw me living in Tampa, which shocked and horrified me at first. The thought of being that far from the kids—an hour round trip—didn’t sit right. But then again, maybe there are possibilities I can’t see yet. If I met a woman I was truly crazy about, someone gorgeous, loving, and ready for a family, who already had her own place in Tampa, maybe it would make sense.

I can imagine that version of life: having immersive weekends with the kids, picking them up after school, making the most of our time together. Even if it looks different from what I know now, it could still be beautiful. Maybe that’s what all of this—writing, creating, healing—is leading toward: being open to a life that’s both unpredictable and full of meaning.

Tonight, I went to my AA meeting and met up with my sponsee there. The topic was complacency, which felt fitting. I shared that when I first came to Alcoholics Anonymous, I was complacent as hell. I only went to two meetings a week, and I didn’t even buy the Big Book for the first two months. Unsurprisingly, I got really thirsty after a couple of months in the program. That restlessness woke me up and forced me to start taking suggestions seriously.

One of those suggestions was to get a massage, and during that session, I had three crystal-clear thoughts: go to five meetings a week, ask the man who became my sponsor to take me on, and read the book. I did all three, and I’ve never gotten complacent in AA again. No matter what’s going on in my life, I keep that commitment to at least five meetings a week. Over the past couple of weeks, it’s been closer to seven—basically one a day. Yesterday I didn’t make it to one, but tomorrow I’m planning to hit two.

On my way home, I stopped by my ex-wife’s house to say goodnight to the kids. We laughed and talked about their day. They’d gone to Fort De Soto with the dogs, and my daughter had gotten into a fuss not long after they arrived—even though she was the one who most wanted to go in the first place. They told me they didn’t get to go to McDonald’s because of the fuss, but they still had fun seeing my ex-wife’s parents, who are leaving for a trip to Europe tomorrow.

After singing You Are My Sunshine to the kids, I had a couple of my ex-wife bars for dinner—or maybe supper, since the hummus earlier could’ve counted as dinner. Then I walked over to my mom’s house and talked with her for about 30 or 40 minutes. She seemed a little down when I got there, but she cheered up after we talked for a while. She was curious about what the psychic had said. I told her that the psychic mentioned sensing I was physically close to my mother, which was true—she lives nearby now.

The psychic didn’t know any of that—it was wild how accurate she’d been. She also told me, “You’ll miss this time with your mother someday, so make sure to enjoy it.” That line stayed with me. If I ever do move to Tampa, I’ll definitely miss how easy it is to stop by and see her. So tonight I made sure to linger, to really enjoy the time together. I figure once I start dating someone again, my evenings will probably be more occupied.

I left my mom’s house around 9:40 p.m. and walked home feeling an urgency to begin the new book. I’m tentatively calling it Friday Yoga Crush, and I knew I had to start it tonight. I dictated thirty minutes of the opening chapter, setting up the story, then immediately followed it with twenty more minutes for my diary—thirty-five minutes of dictation total for the day.

Now I’m heading to shower and then to bed. Tomorrow morning, I plan to record my dreams as soon as I wake up. I’m not sure yet if I’ll include them in this diary or create a separate book just for dreams, but I’ll find out soon enough. For now, I’m just grateful to be in this rhythm—writing, creating, and staying open to whatever comes next.

If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.

One Pass and Done: The Day My Workflow Clicked

Originally published September 18, 2025.

This is my journal entry from September 18, 2025, part of my daily autobiography The Kind Divorce — my real, unedited days, published in order.

This morning brought a real breakthrough with my AI workflow. I realized I’d been wasting a lot of time by processing all my transcripts through the AI first and then returning later to edit them. That approach meant I was often reading the same material two or three times, which drained both time and creative energy. The impatience to see the full manuscript complete had been driving that inefficiency. What I really need is a single, focused pass—one seamless flow from AI output to final edit.

Now I see it clearly: the moment I receive the processed transcript from AI, I should go straight into editing. That way, I catch errors early, refine structure immediately, and strengthen the workflow in real time. This also allows me to better recognize how the AI performs and adjust on the fly instead of creating a backlog of partially finished work. It’s incredible how much time I’ve wasted running fifteen transcripts through AI at once only to realize the workflow wasn’t right.

Today, as I drove quietly to massage school, my mind turned over these ideas again and again until the solution clicked. The key is simplicity. One pass through editing, done immediately after processing. No revisiting, no re-editing later. Once I complete that single pass, I’m finished. The book gets published as is, and any future polishing can be left to professional editors or reader feedback.

Massage school itself was another highlight of the day. We practiced effleurage and petrissage, using the new lotions, creams, and oils we received. I worked on one of the moms, which felt both rewarding and slightly awkward. I noticed how the dynamic of giving a massage can carry an energy that calls for clear professional boundaries. It reminded me how important it is to stay grounded and focused on the work itself. I love that feeling, and I love helping someone else feel good through it.

On the drive home, I began dictating a new book about health. The ideas were flowing easily, and I felt inspired to refine my creative systems even more. Later that night, I researched new tools and discovered a program for Mac called MacWhisper. It promises better transcription quality than Apple’s built-in option. If I can capture my words more accurately at the start, the AI will understand me better, and the rewrites will need fewer corrections. A cleaner transcript means a smoother conversation between my words, the machine, and my final written voice.

It feels like everything’s aligning now—workflow, tools, and creative energy. With this new system, I can write faster, edit cleaner, and publish more consistently. I can finally see the path toward producing truly professional books with less wasted motion and more focus on what matters: the message itself.

When I got home today, I immediately sat down to finalize the meeting format for the new AA group I’ve started. We held our first thirty-minute gathering this afternoon, and just as we were wrapping up, one of my friends with over forty years of sobriety walked in. His timing couldn’t have been better. He spoke with us about what it really means to start a meeting, offering wisdom that only decades in recovery can provide. He also recommended a few pieces of literature outside of the official AA texts that he thought might deepen our discussions. The main question we left to consider tonight is whether to incorporate non-AA literature into our format or not.

I’m torn. On one hand, I want this meeting to be an official Alcoholics Anonymous group, listed in the Where & When so people can easily find us. On the other, I want it to feel alive—something that truly helps people expand their thinking rather than repeat the same robotic patterns. I don’t want a room full of people just reciting slogans; I want us to question, to grow, to wake up. Maybe there’s a way to do both—to honor the AA structure while keeping the spirit open and curious.

After the meeting, I went to the tennis club for tennis and had another great men’s clinic with a tennis coach coaching. Three highly skilled players joined from the court next to us, and the energy shifted immediately. Their shots were powerful, precise, and fast. It was exhilarating to hit beside them and feel myself rise to the challenge. Playing near people who are better than me always pulls something higher out of my game. I had an incredible time, both competing and laughing between points.

After practice, a tennis coach and I talked for a while, and I gave her a copy of my book. I’m hoping she’ll enjoy it and maybe share her thoughts when she finishes. I also floated the idea that someday we might trade—massage sessions for tennis lessons. For now, I’m happy to pay and just see how it feels to learn from her in this setting. There’s a good energy between us, and it’s fun to explore that connection while focusing on the game.

Later that night, I spent time with my mom. She’s heading to my brother’s wedding tomorrow, so I wanted to have some real conversation with her before she leaves. I decided to focus entirely on listening, asking questions instead of talking about myself. That shift opened something between us. She began sharing deeply personal memories, stories she’d only mentioned in passing before but never in detail. I realized how often I’d missed those opportunities in the past because I wasn’t truly curious. Tonight I was, and it changed everything. If you’re working on showing up for the people you love like this, I’d love for you to schedule a private call with me, where we can look at how to build a life that’s worth being fully present for.

For about an hour we sat together, and I just listened—really listened. My mom was animated and happy to have my full attention. It felt intimate, healing even, to hear her speak so openly. By the time I went to bed, I felt filled with joy and peace. It was one of those rare days where everything—service, play, and family—flowed perfectly together.

If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.

Book & Body: The Name That Captures Everything

Originally published August 18, 2025.

This is my journal entry from August 18, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Author in St. Petersburg — my real, unedited days, published in order.

my ex-wife and I started the day with a trip to Ikea in Tampa after I woke up around 6:40, got the kids ready, and dropped them off at school. Once I got home, I worked with ChatGPT on processing some of my dictations. Lately, I’ve found that a 20–25 percent cut ratio keeps the integrity and voice of what I say while trimming out the fat and making the writing more readable.

The trip to Ikea was full of laughing and playfulness. Our main goal was to shop for my ex-wife’s closet office—the “cloffice”—a room she moved out of a year ago when she took over my son’s bedroom and I moved inside from my shed that was falling apart. I’ve since cleared it out so she can move back in, and I’ll relocate my old desk into a corner of the master bedroom beside the bed. That will give me space to record audiobooks while she has her office set up again. At Ikea, though, we realized the furniture we had in mind wouldn’t fit, so the only thing we bought was a colorful rainbow welcome mat. We had a nice lunch in the cafeteria—plant balls, house sodas, and a slice of cake—and enjoyed each other’s company.

Back home, I continued editing entries for I Was Famous on the Internet and worked with ChatGPT on the letter I dictated yesterday for my ex-wife’s parents. Writing that letter makes me nervous, because I dive into sensitive topics like money and sex in detail—the highs and lows of my income, the hardest years in business, and the challenges my ex-wife and I have faced in our marriage. My ex-wife glanced over my shoulder at some of the most tender parts, which made me tense. Everyone else in my life already knows these things in depth, yet her family doesn’t. Her parents are in their 60s and 70s, and I feel they should be able to handle grown-up conversations at this stage. The point of the letter is to be transparent, to share the challenges we’re working through so they can really know us. My hope is to create a deeper connection with them, since right now even casual acquaintances often know me better than they do.

For this letter, I asked ChatGPT to soften my tone, unlike with my books where I keep everything raw and direct. I wanted to make sure nothing sounded judgmental, especially when covering heavier topics. It helps me phrase things more considerately, so what might be hard to discuss face-to-face can at least open the door to meaningful conversations. My plan is to finish the edits and give the letter to her parents this week.

I asked the kids on the way to school today if they could think of any reasons not to go to massage school now. My son told me this is the perfect time, because if I waited, the timing might not work out. It matches up perfectly with the school calendar—summer break and holidays when I’ll need to be home more for the kids. They pointed out that we already drive farther to take them to a better school, so driving farther to massage school for a better program is consistent with how we make family decisions.

Over lunch, my ex-wife and I debated whether free will even exists. I could force myself to choose the closer school regardless of preference, but forcing things has defined much of my past. I thought back to my time at the University of South Carolina—how I enrolled without enthusiasm, simply because I had no better option. Those decisions never felt good. Massage school, on the other hand, seems carefully thought out and aligned with my life. The only thing holding me back is the time I’ll lose for writing.

I love writing so much I could easily spend 12 hours a day dictating, editing, and assembling books. If I skipped massage school, I’d finish many more volumes. Still, what would I offer people beyond the books themselves? Yesterday’s coaching session with my life coach reminded me how much more powerful it would have been if she had combined coaching with bodywork. Instead of meeting her for coaching and then going to my massage therapist for a massage, the two could have been integrated into one extraordinary session. That’s exactly the kind of service I want to offer: not just books, not just coaching, not just massage, but all of it together. That hunger for genuine connection is why I'd love to actually get to know you beyond the surface — you can schedule a private one-on-one call with me and we'll start there.

Today I pictured having my own space. For a while, I imagined running a bookstore called Jerry Banfield Books, but the vision felt flat—just another shop where people drink coffee among shelves. Then I saw something new: a massage room surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. My books, plus the ones that inspired me, plus used books I’d collect to resell. Each client could take home a few books after a session—maybe three included with the first visit, then discounts for more. The appointment would begin with conversation, then move to the table for massage, combining bodywork and coaching in a single transformative experience.

My ex-wife helped refine the branding. I had thought about “Jerry Banfield Books,” but when she mentioned how much she loved the name Book & Bottle, she came up with Book & Body. The moment I heard it, I knew it was perfect. It captures exactly what I want to do: author, speaker, coach, and massage therapist united under one simple, memorable name. Book & Body is so much more compelling than Jerry Banfield Books. I can already see it on my car: “Book & Body by Jerry Banfield — Author, Speaker, Coach, Massage Therapist.”

Tonight I’ll go to an AA meeting instead of yoga. I haven’t exercised today, but three days of tennis are lined up this week: playing with my friend tomorrow, a three-set match with my friend Wednesday if the weather holds, and a clinic on Thursday. Resting today is fine, though I’d like to add weights for days like this so I can still do something physical. Missing yoga is acceptable; there will be more chances. For today, AA feels more important.

If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.

Writing Books for a Living: Why I Stopped Looking for a Job

On this page

Writing Books Is My Real Job Now

Building My Army of Tiny Books

The Story Has Claimed Me

One Pass and Done: The Day My Workflow Clicked

Book & Body: The Name That Captures Everything

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