I was freezing my ass off in a 42nd-floor boardroom in Chicago, staring at six investors who were mostly looking at their phones.

The senior partner was a guy named Preston. He wore the kind of suit that didn't just look expensive-it looked like it was engineered in a lab to make whoever sat across from him feel small.

Preston had been holding my business plan for a full minute in silence. The only sound in the room was the low hum of the AC pushing cold air onto the back of my neck. Finally, he set the packet down and gave me this look. If you’ve ever pitched anything, or even just tried to get a bank loan when your account is overdrawn, you know the look. It’s the face adults give a kid when they’re just humoring them. The meeting was already over in his head.

"This is cute," he said.

He actually used the word cute.

"Genuinely," he continued. "Gas stations. A laundromat. A diner in Warren, Michigan." He gave a half-smile, tapping the glossy paper. "We invest in scale here. In disruption. Not hometown stuff."

Somebody at the end of the table-a junior guy in a quarter-zip-let out a quiet laugh. Just a quick exhale through his nose.

Under the massive oak table, my hands were shaking. But three years earlier, those same hands were stained with cheap gas station coffee at two in the morning, scrubbing dried nacho cheese off a counter. I took a breath, opened my laptop, and decided right then I wasn't leaving the room without making him look at my screen.

But to understand how I ended up in that room, you have to understand how I grew up.

I was raised in Warren, Michigan. It’s a blue-collar auto town. When I was seventeen, my dad was lifting a transmission housing at the plant where he’d worked for eleven years. He’d done that same motion thousands of times. But this time, his lower back just gave out. One second he was fine, making a joke to a line worker. The next second he was on the concrete floor, unable to feel his legs.

He never stood up the same way again.

Workers' comp is an absolute joke. It paid a fraction of his old salary. We burned through my parents' meager savings in about four months. My dad kept apologizing to nobody in particular for things that weren't his fault. My mom started picking up double shifts at a local diner, working ten to twelve hours a day on her feet. She’d come home so exhausted she couldn't talk, just running a hot bath to soak her swollen knees.

I got a job working the night shift at a Speedway gas station. It was a brutal winter. I worked four, sometimes five nights a week ringing up stale taquitos and scratch-offs. Between customers, I’d prop my laptop against the register and try to teach myself calculus.

One night, I was counting down the drawer at 1:30 AM when my phone buzzed. It was a text from my mom.

>

That’s the thing nobody tells you about being broke in America. It doesn’t announce itself with some big dramatic movie scene. It’s just this suffocating weight sitting underneath everything you do. It's doing mental math in the grocery store aisle, putting back a box of cereal because you're terrified your debit card will decline.

I didn't cry. I just put my phone away and finished counting the ones.

The next fall, I transferred to Michigan State using Pell Grants. But it didn't cover rent or gas for the drive back to Warren to check on my parents, so I worked a data entry job on top of a full course load.

College was a massive culture shock. I was paired for a group project with a girl named Madison who drove a leased BMW and took ski trips to Aspen. One afternoon in the library, she asked what my parents did. I told her my dad was on disability and my mom waited tables.

Madison blinked, completely unbothered. "Oh my god, that's so real," she said, like I had just told her a fun piece of trivia. "My family's never had, like, a normal job. Is that bad? I feel like that's bad."

I just smiled tight. She wasn't malicious. She was just completely careless.

That same week, I hit a breaking point. My financial aid was delayed, my car's alternator started grinding, and my mom just told me she was picking up a third weekend shift. I sat on my dorm room floor and seriously considered dropping out. I figured I could move back, work full-time at the gas station, and just accept that college was for the Madisons of the world.

But I pictured my mom's knees. If I quit now, what was all this struggling even for?

I didn't pack my bags. I opened my laptop.

I had been noticing that the small businesses I grew up with were dying. Local hardware stores, bakeries, video shops. They weren't bad businesses; they were just invisible. If you didn't exist on a phone screen, you didn't exist. They had no websites or Google pages, and they couldn't compete with corporate chains running digital ads.

I started staying up until 3 AM watching free tutorials on local SEO, website building, and digital marketing. Then, I built a site for my mom's diner for free. I claimed their Google listing, made a Facebook page, and taught her how to take food photos.

Within six weeks, their weekend brunch business jumped by 30%. My mom pulled me behind the counter one Sunday, crying, saying the tips that month would cover the gas bill.

So I went to a thrift store, bought a blazer that didn't quite fit, and started knocking on doors in Warren. No appointments. Just a 20-year-old walking into auto body shops asking for five minutes.

It was humiliating. I got laughed out of rooms constantly. One tire shop owner pointed at the door and said, "Sweetheart, I've been doing fine without the internet since before you were born."

I hit 41 rejections.

Number 42 was Rosa, who owned a family-run laundromat. She just looked exhausted. I charged her barely enough to cover my server costs. I optimized her search listing, set up a simple geo-targeted ad, and built a one-page site. Her foot traffic went up 15% in two months.

Rosa told her brother. He told a buddy. By the time I graduated, I had 19 paying clients. I moved back home, worked out of a cheap storefront, and launched my own local SEO SaaS company for mom-and-pop shops. Two years later, we had 53 clients and provable growth.

That's when a massive regional marketing firm took notice. They started calling my clients directly, offering 50% off to use their slick corporate software instead of mine. Rosa called me, embarrassed, saying she didn't want to leave but her water bills were killing her.

I was going to bleed out. I couldn't out-discount a giant corporation forever. I needed capital to scale my software and lock down my market.

Which brings me back to the cold boardroom on the 42nd floor.

Preston Vance had just called my life's work "cute hometown stuff."

When the guy at the end of the table chuckled, a hot spike of adrenaline hit my chest. I remembered the tire shop guy. I remembered Madison. I stopped shaking.

"Before you say no," I said, my voice completely steady, "can I show you one number?"

Preston sighed. "Fine. One number."

I turned my laptop screen around so the whole table could see it.

"**Client retention rate,**" I said. "**Ninety-four percent, over four years.**"

The room went dead silent.

"The average early-stage SaaS company is at sixty-eight percent on a good year. My biggest competitor is offering my clients a fifty percent discount. And they are staying anyway. My customer acquisition cost is a third of the industry average because my clients trust me enough to send their friends to me for free."

Preston pulled his glasses off and squinted at my screen. "Where did you learn to build cohort retention models like this?"

"YouTube," I told him. "At two in the morning. Behind a gas station register in Warren, Michigan."

Nobody was laughing anymore.

We talked for forty minutes. But in the end, Preston still passed. I didn't fit the Silicon Valley pattern. I flew home feeling hollowed out, thinking I was going back to square one.

But you never know who is actually listening in those rooms.

There was a junior associate named Renata who hadn't said a word. She grew up working the counter at her family’s dry-cleaning business in Cicero, IL. She couldn't stop thinking about that 94% retention rate.

Three days later, she called me. She was leaving Preston's firm to partner with a new boutique fund that backed non-traditional founders. She wanted my company to be their first anchor investment. After weeks of brutal due diligence, we closed a $4.2 million seed round.

Everything changed. We went on the offensive, expanded the software, and hired a ruthless sales team. Our corporate rival quietly stopped calling my clients. Within a year, we scaled to over 1,100 clients across 19 states.

Last Thanksgiving, I woke up early and drove to my parents' house. The roof still leaked in heavy rain, and the kitchen linoleum was peeling.

I set a manila envelope on the kitchen island. Inside were two things: a piece of paper from the bank stamped **PAID IN FULL** (their mortgage), and a set of brass keys.

My mom looked at the keys, totally confused.

"They're for the house three streets over," I said. "The ranch-style one. It’s a single level, Dad. No stairs."

My mom dropped her dish towel. Her hands started shaking-the exact same way mine used to under boardroom tables. She choked out that I didn't have to do this, that they were fine.

My dad didn't say a word. He just hobbled over, wrapped his massive, calloused arms around both of us, and buried his face in my hair.

We stood there in that cramped kitchen for a long time. And for the first time in five years, nobody in that house was doing math in their head to survive.

Welcome back to my best picks of the month of my curated tips for writers. In this edition, Beem Weeks is at the Story Empire with a wonderful tutorial on Creating Vivid Settings for our … Continue reading

I was saddened to find out a few years ago that they discontinued the old writer’s market guides by Writer’s Digest Books. In fact, it seems the whole Writer’s Digest Books division went the way of the Do Do bird. I had every edition since 1978.

Then I got all excited. I heard it was back! Not exactly.

Find out what happens next...

#writersdigest #writersdigestbooks

Isn't this world full of so different kind of people . Like it shocks me sometimes and sometimes I feel like, what I am seeing is really real .  Sometimes I keep wondering about what is truest form of love . Do i love my parents? Or is it that I love that they care for me and buy the things I want? But somehow imagining a life without them tears me up. Who will take care of me like them? I know no one in this world can . So, is it that I am afraid of loosing people who make me feel wanted in this world? I think so maybe it is one of the many reasons of the heart wrenching feeling I get when I think of loosing them . But i am still young ,  and they have alot of expectations from me , but will they take care of me as much as they do now if I am not able to give them back anything . Will they still cherish me this cheerfully as they do now ? Will they still take me to shopping ? Will they still make my favorite dishes?

I think again and again,  the one thought I always end up with is , am I deserving enough to receive their care when I can offer nothing in return ?

I sometimes wonder if I lean too heavily on metaphor. Perhaps that's why some of what I write feels obscure to others. Writing something directly is often easier, but there is a different kind of satisfaction in saying one thing while meaning another. A good metaphor invites the reader to discover the meaning instead of simply being told.

Nature has always been the language I return to. Birds, trees, rivers, wind, sunlight, shadows, mountains, and the changing seasons all seem to express human emotions better than plain words ever could. Even time feels more natural to me when measured in seasons rather than years. Maybe that's why I love the words of Ecclesiastes: "To everything there is a season." Life has always made more sense to me that way.

I also find myself returning to the imagery of the forge. Fire, hammers, molten steel, and the patient shaping of metal have become symbols of hardship, perseverance, and growth. The strongest things are rarely born whole; they are refined through heat, pressure, and countless blows. There is something deeply human in that process.

Ideas can come from anywhere, a song, memory, conversation, photograph, a line in a book, or a single phrase that refuses to leave my mind. Inspiration has a way of appearing unexpectedly.

I'll probably keep writing with metaphors because they are the language that feels most challenging to me. At the same time, I want to challenge myself to explore new styles and discover fresh images, rather than relying too often on the same familiar symbols. Every writer has favorite colors on their palette. Mine just happen to be seasons, forests, rivers, and the forge. Perhaps it's time to add a few new ones without putting down the old.

I sometimes wonder if I lean too heavily on metaphor. Perhaps that's why some of what I write feels obscure to others. Writing something directly is often easier, but there is a different kind of satisfaction in saying one thing while meaning another. A good metaphor invites the reader to discover the meaning instead of simply being told.

I recent got a pretty serious TBI. I starting writing this to get my mind off blowing my shit smooth back. I just don’t know if it even is anything. Or is it just nonsense https://open.substack.com/pub/bennyrulez

Now from REAL WRITER’S MARKET: KIDS Writer’s Market. Welcome to the KIDS Writer’s Market: Independent Book Publishers. KIDS Writer’s Market is your guide to the hugely-thriving, kids’ publishing scene. These are real publishing houses where authors can submit their children’s books. Artists, too. With the KIDS Writer’s Market you can be a published children’s author,…