Page 10 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

I make things and put them into the world with no pedigree, no backstory, no billionaire label attached.

And the crazy part?

People want them.

Not because I’m me. They don’t know that part.

But they still want them.

It builds momentum.

Then my neighbor—my closest thing to a friend—orders custom pieces for his woman. His Willow.

Then, I see it.

The willow tree.

The way it bends without breaking—and fuck me, I am inspired.

I’m in the middle of this willow tree phase and I don’t know if it will burn out or what, I just can’t stop drawing them, stamping them, painting, etching, carving—everything I do now, I do with willow trees in every season.

And because my friend’s woman is a tiny, mouthy hurricane in a curvy little body with a heart of gold, she starts a social media page to show off what I made.

I don’t ask her to do it.

But I don’t ask her to stop, either.

It seems harmless at first.

A few likes. A few comments. A small ripple.

Except ripples turn into waves when the internet gets hungry.

Now I’m being stared at when I go into town for supplies.

Now people linger too long in the hardware store aisle, trying to decide if my hands look like the hands in the videos.

Now my agent calls with that careful excitement in her voice.

Like she’s trying not to spook a wild animal.

And my attorneys send emails with subject lines that make my stomach drop.

My millions? Well, they tell me they’ve turned into billions.

And not with my old money, but with my art.

Deals with major retailers.

Global distribution.

Licensing requests.

Collaborations I never asked for.

Prints of what I create slapped onto everything these days—phone cases, throws, packaging, billboards, apparel—like the work is just another pattern to be consumed and tossed.

I can’t stand that part.