Page 9 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

To the cabin.

The very cabin I live in now.

It’s older than most of the people who used to pretend to be my friends.

It creaks when the temperature drops and groans when the wind hits it just right, like it’s speaking its own language.

The porch steps are uneven. The windows don’t seal perfectly. The whole place is stubborn in a way I respect.

Out here, there’s no audience.

No expectations.

No one asking me to be smooth and charming and normal.

Just me. My hands. And my real work.

Because for all the money I was handed, all I ever really wanted—what I’ve always only wanted—was to create.

Art. All kinds.

Not consume.

Not collect.

Not pose beside expensive things like they’re trophies.

Creation.

That’s my drug.

To take a raw material and turn it into something that means something.

To leave a mark that isn’t bought, borrowed, or inherited.

And that’s the real kicker, isn’t it?

How would a rich schmuck like me ever know if my art spoke for itself or if my money paved the way?

How would I know if people wanted what I made? Or if they wanted the story they assumed came with my name?

So I took my name out of it.

I started releasing my work in secret—quietly, carefully—wrapped in layers of paperwork and intermediaries and nondisclosure agreements so tight they could cut off circulation.

No interviews. No public appearances. No face to attach to the work.

Just a signature.

Initials that look roughly like an EKG.

GCM.

Short for Greyson Cole’s Mountain.

At first, it’s a test.

A little experiment, because my brain loves a problem it can chew on.