Dumb Luck

We all dream of falling into a small fortune.

Whether through hard work & success or just blind, dumb luck.

Attempting to crack through the mundane and end up with something. Anything.

We’re held down by everyday living expenses. Trading our income in order to live simple, regular lives.

We barely keep our head a float. Waiting for things to settle. Waiting for a small change. One that is presented to very few, leaving the rest of us to sink.

We only dare to imagine standing against the current of debts and expenses that endeavours to pummel us deeper into depths of despair.

Or at least that's how I felt until blind dumb luck swept me off my feet and carried me to its castle like a modern day Cinderella.

*****

One would assume the day that changed everything would be outstanding, outlandish, or even overcoming. But in reality… it was nothing spectacular—just another average day.

I’ve always been a bit of a bookworm. Others would have no issue calling me a “book hoarder”. Personally, I prefer “cultured collector”. Ranging from old to new, my tiny apartment was filled with books. Shelves decorate most walls; books littered the tables and chairs. One room could even be considered a small library. Going to yard sales, secondhand shops, and book sales have long been some of my favourite Sunday morning activities.

Having laid out the foundation, or starting point, if you will, I own many books. I’m well-read and, like most, I have my favourite authors. I can recognise their specific writing voice, their nuances. Tones, patterns, preferred writing methods. Every writer has a distinct style, almost like a thumbprint. Different. Unique. Identifiable.

But I digress. You, the reader, are only interested in how I accumulated my vast wealth. You couldn’t possibly be interested in my humble beginnings. However, in order to fully understand, you must unravel the events that lead up to that point. How bizarrely lucky my find was. Which brings me back to that fateful Sunday morning at a yard sale.

I cannot remember exactly how I found out about this morning. All I can remember is my discovery of the book. It was quite simple, really.

There were several boxes of old, crinkled, weathered books.

My fingers fluttered over the many titles, skimming over the different cover textures. Smooth, rough, bubbled. I probably would have missed it, but as I mentioned previously, luck was on my side. My hand grazed over, and my finger caught a frayed ribbon bookmark. Pulling this book out of the stack, I started to examine it.

The front cover was worn down to just its plain leather exterior. No title. No author. Barely any characteristics that would make it stand out.

Just a little black book.

At first glance, it was nothing too impressive. Rather it appeared to be just old and worn down. Something that could easily be thrown out. In all honesty, it doesn’t surprise me that it ended up here, at a yard sale. But it’s these books, ladies and gentlemen, that hold more secrets than you would immediately presume. Sometimes in order to see the beauty of a piece, you need to look past all the muck and grime.

I started to flick through the yellowed, crinkled pages. Letters float off the paper. Old phrases and words graffiti each sheet of paper. My eyes glazed over the elder language. Middle English.

The scent of old books drifted through the air as I slowly read. Each cusp of every page guided my journey. Recounted conversations, drafted works, journal entries. I knew this author. I’d read their works before. This was a notebook. Ideas scattered each page, and I could see them manifest into something magnificent. This notebook acted as a map. Pointing the writer in the correct direction and leaving plenty of room for citation and critique. Citation and critique in another handwriting. In another tone of voice.

William Shakespeare didn’t write alone.

This notebook had dictation from another individual.

Every draft was appraised by someone else.

I remember reading the book.

My heart stopped.

This was game-changing.

I clutched the book tightly in my hands. Grasping firmly onto my lucky find. The seller clearly had no idea they were in the possession of this small fortune. There’s been immense speculation surrounding whether or not Shakespeare had a writing companion–here’s the evidence.

It cost a back-breaking two dollars. But let's be honest. The payout was immense.

Now I wish this was the end of the story, but you all know that isn’t true. In fact, the process involved in authenticating an article like this is immense.

A discovery of this size causes a lot of controversies. Numerous people would argue both for and against the authenticity of the book.

This was the beginning of a long journey.

*****

Years upon years of waiting.

By now, you probably weren’t wondering still how I accumulated my vast wealth. The literary find of the century, in someone’s yard sale.

Once my discovery was made, I brought it to many universities and scholars. I discovered that many individuals were willing to pay a… shall we say, small fee, to see the book. Necessary precautions were made to protect the book, and I made some profit from it.

Evidently, everyone was hesitant to involve themselves in the project. Due to the controversies, being involved in the authentication process has the potential to ruin one's reputation.

I’ll be honest. If anyone else stepped forward with this same claim, I wouldn’t believe them. Shakespeare’s writing partner was a conspiracy for generations, and now a nobody, me, comes out of nowhere with their journal? I’d believe it was a hoax as well.

Now, I’m not a full-blown scholar or anything. Just an average everyday book reader, but this elevated my name in the academic fields. Researchers were eager to contact me. I received numerous offers for the book. I rent it out to various museums and universities.

But how have I changed?

I moved out of my small apartment.

I have my own library.

And my debt is gone.

All because of stupid, blind luck and a plain, worn, little black book.