...I'm just a writer.

I’m just going to say it, without embellishment:

I don’t enjoy writing anymore, but I can’t afford to stop writing. I need the extra cash, as I continue to struggle financially. As a result, I must maintain a regular output of weekly articles and I get anxious if 3 days go by without writing something…so I tend to just circle around the same handful of topics that are effortless and easy. Sometimes I feel like a sleazy tabloid columnist, especially when I write about my own life (I never wanted to get personal but the personal bits sell—I only ever came out and revealed I wasn’t a woman because I thought it would help my career, help me make more money by being able to appear on podcasts—otherwise, I would’ve kept the character going).

Writing stopped being fun after I felt I could not longer play the part of Madame Z. Nothing will ever make me happy as a man, I will never be happy in life because fundamentally I am not fulfilled within my very Being!

When everybody believed I was actually a woman, that was the only time in my life I was ever loved. I was asked to appear on podcasts, I was asked to collaborate, suddenly everybody wanted me! I was like a celebrity. Imagine how sad it must be to realize that if you were just born as the opposite sex you could’ve had everything in the world, instead you’re just going to spend the rest of your life miserable and unwanted because you happen to love everything nobody cares about!

I would’ve done Onlyfans by now, I would’ve used all I could and become somebody famous and important—instead, I’m just a writer.

Below, an image of what I could’ve and should’ve been.