Because one of my managers, D., saw my interest in Kickstarter, he pointed me to IndieGoGo — another arts-microfinancing site — and dammit if I didn’t use 75% of my August Borgia Budget on the first day. When there are so many dreams out there, so many people struggling to create something that has meaning for them, and you’ve set aside money specifically to help, it’s difficult to pick only four a month. Granted, my contributions aren’t likely to buy anything more than a couple cases of Diet Coke, but every tiny bit counts, I think. Or at least that’s what I’d like to think. Who knows? Maybe they look at my donation, shake their heads and just go, “Cheapskate fucker.”
But I’m a cheapskate fucker with a warm feeling in my tummy. So maybe I’m doing it for myself, too.
These are the projects I funded from IndieGoGo:
‘Cause, well… just cause. And you should, too.
One of the best web series I’ve ever seen. The time has passed to make contributions through IGG, but you can still donate through their website, and at the very least (seriously, the very least, you cheapskate fucker), you should go watch the show. Even its theme song kicks ass — as does the fabulously filthy Ribina Champagne.
Some people ask me, “What would you do if you couldn’t be a writer?” Besides the obvious answer (“Slit my carotid with a rusted two-penny nail”), I’m always baffled by how to respond. Because truthfully, I can’t do anything else. I have no other marketable skills, I’d probably go postal in a job I had to fake my way through, and doubtless it would all end in tears with a rusted two-penny nail.
But for her 50th birthday, Colleen Wainwright is putting her hair where her mouth is when it comes to WriteGirl, an LA charity that encourages teen girls to write. Ms. Thang has vowed to shave her head bald — that’s B-A-Frickin’-L-D, ladies — if they hit their $50K target goal, and any woman who pledges her coif to writers is someone I can get behind. If I’d had someone like Colleen to encourage me in my writing early on, perhaps in college I might’ve avoided all those disgusting clove cigarettes at Theatre Department parties. Plus she’s infectiously enthusiastic. Like e. coli, but it won’t make you sick. (Well, maybe a little sick, but in a more Jesus-I’m-A-Self-Centered-Bastard kind of way.)
But you know how to make those Jesus-I’m-A-Self-Centered-Bastard feelings go away?
Donate to WriteGirl.