Like many young people, I dreamed of growing up and becoming a successful writer one day.
My first part-time job came when I was 18 years old. I was working in a paint factory. Because of the terrible smell of paint, it became normal for me to temporarily pass out during my lunch time.
I discovered content mills, where a writer could devote his time to writing soul-destroying online copy. It provided a little pay, but I wouldn't faint. So I quit my day job. But it is difficult to work from home. At times, I would lose all passion for writing 500 words about a bed for a few pounds, but the terrible smell of paint reminded me to get back to writing.
Several months later, the money got better. I was given consistent work writing for one of the largest entertainment websites in the world. The job was simple: I complained about everything that was wrong with society and they paid me £ 50 for each article. A guy from the website asked if would be interested in leaving my small town life to move to the big city of Manchester to become a professional writer for them. I accepted. After a pretty successful year, I was offered a promotion. Just 18 months earlier, I was suffering from the smell of paint on a daily basis and now I was managing a team of nine writers. I had come a long way.
