Let’s just say it plainly.
I’m a washed-up ex-teacher working part-time at Starbucks to barely make ends meet. I sit in my apartment for hours at a time, trying to do something that feels like it matters. I make art. I write stories. I build books that might only ever be read by a few people. I’m not a public figure. I’m not a business mogul. I’m not a voice of a generation.
I’m just someone who refuses to stop caring.
And yeah—if you’re reading this in 2025, then you already know:
Trump is president. Again.
Not just running. Not just posting. Not just threatening.
Enough people voted for him that he won. And now he’s making noise about third terms like democracy is a punchline and shame is dead.
We don’t have a real opposition.
We don’t have any actual momentum to fight this, not in the way it’s needed.
We have fatigue. We have fear. We have silence.
And into that silence, I’m still here. Still trying. Still yelling quietly.
Because what else can I do?
A Swiss Army Knife in a Burning Room
I’ve said this before, but it keeps coming up:
Some people are switchblades.
They have one clean edge. One polished skill. One clear path.
That’s never been me.
I’m a Swiss Army knife—awkward, multipurpose, always unfolding.
I’ve had to be. Out of necessity, not ambition.
I’m a writer. A publisher. A designer. A reluctant marketer. A barista. A struggling disabled adult in a red state with no real safety net. I’ve had to learn how to do everything myself just to keep going. Just to feel like I’m doing something of my own in a world that keeps telling people like me to shut up, sit down, and give up.
But there’s one blade at the center of everything I do:
Tell the truth. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.
That’s the only “brand” I’ve got.
So Yeah, I’m Opening a Coffee Shop
It’s called Pleasant Roast Coffee, and I’m opening it on Pleasantburg Drive in Greenville, South Carolina.
Not because I’ve always dreamed of pouring cortados and playing indie playlists under string lights.
Not because I’m chasing some aesthetic.
Not because I wanted a distraction.
I’m opening it because there’s a gap in this part of town.
Not enough good coffee. Not enough decent third spaces that aren’t gas stations or corporate chains.
This is a part of the city that’s changing—fast—but still missing the basics.
So I’m trying to build something useful.
A business. A service. A real place with a real purpose.
But I’m also trying to do it without losing my soul.
I want to treat workers like people. I want to serve coffee without condescension. I want to build something sustainable—not trendy, not corporate, just human.
I want to make a living.
But I also want to make it through with my integrity intact.
No branding bullshit. No “community hub” performance piece.
Just a real place, for real people, in a real city that deserves better than what it’s getting.
What I’ve Been Building (And Why)
These last few weeks, I’ve been doing more than just daydreaming. I’ve been trying to organize the pieces of my life and work into something coherent. Something that might help me keep going. Something that might help someone else feel less alone.
📚 The Press Kit
Not a resume. Not a brag sheet. Just the honest story of what I’ve written, why it matters, and what it’s all about.
- The Cancer Diet — a memoir about illness, adoption, grief, and staying alive when staying alive feels like the hardest choice.
- Empire, Nevada — a quiet, literary novel about two boys navigating trauma, memory, and the aftermath of things no one talks about.
- Unto a Golden Dawn — a genre-breaking recursion novel about authorship, control, and memory, blending Crowley, Poe, and something deeper: the need to be seen, even in the chaos.
The press kit ties it all together. It gives context to the chaos. It says, “Hey—this is who I am. This is the work. Take it or leave it.”
🎯 The Kickstarter
We restructured the campaign for Unto a Golden Dawn to reflect what it really is—not a commercial product, but a work of survival and recursion.
The campaign isn’t loud. It isn’t sleek. It’s not designed to go viral.
It’s made for a few people who understand that stories can hold weight when nothing else can.
📍 Outreach Without Pretending
I’m not flooding inboxes. I’m not hiring PR. I’m just sending out real messages to people who might care:
- A local TV host I barely know, who might be willing to feature a Greenville story.
- Reviewers and readers who’ve supported other vulnerable, messy, human books.
- Friends and strangers who might see a piece of themselves in my work.
This isn’t about exposure.
It’s about connection.
Where Do I See Myself in the Future?
Fuck.
I honestly don’t know.
Yes, there’s a version of this where the coffee shop takes off.
Where I make enough to breathe.
Where I get to go on vacation without panicking about the next check.
Where I buy a lake house and write in peace and finally stop feeling like every month is a cliffhanger episode about whether I’ll make rent.
But here’s the other truth:
I’m almost functionally disabled.
Just working the shifts I do at Starbucks is incredibly hard. Physically. Mentally. Spiritually.
Some days I come home and collapse. Some days I don’t know how I’ll make it through the next one.
And Starbucks? Let’s be honest:
There’s a real chance they’ll fire me if this coffee shop gets any kind of real press.
My manager’s been cool. No one’s snitched to corporate—yet.
But it would not surprise me if they decided I’m a liability. A threat. A competitor.
And if that happens?
I’m fucked.
I have no backup plan.
I’m only able to keep trying because I have supportive parents.
If I didn’t, I’d already be out on the street.
They’re amazing. They’ve done more for me than I can say.
But they’re older now. They shouldn’t still have to worry about me at 45 years old.
And yet—they do.
Because I’m still here.
Still treading water.
Still dreaming of something more.
So What Do I Do?
I keep going.
I keep writing.
I keep building.
I keep being honest.
Even when it makes people uncomfortable.
Even when it risks my job, or my pride, or my last shred of optimism.
Because this world is telling us to stop caring.
To pick a side and scream.
To pretend things are black and white when we know they’re not.
And I won’t play along.
I’m tired of pretending we don’t see what’s happening.
I’m tired of pretending success is simple.
I’m tired of pretending I’m okay just because I know how to write like I am.
So this is me.
Not a brand. Not a movement.
Just a human being trying to build something real.
If you’ve read this far, thank you.
You didn’t have to.
But maybe you needed this, too.
I’ll keep going if you do.
—Frank
Frank M. Anderson's Writing 
Leave a comment