So, the promise of winning kept me playing. Plenty of lottery winners win again.
Future earnings aside, I hedged my bets against failure, or at least lack of success—in having a career—as a freelance writer, a creative writer, a screenwriter, MFA student, writing teacher—my dream to live as an artist. And like a performing artist who wants to be a working actor, I wanted to be a working writer. I was having a heck of a time doing it without a financial windfall. I have no statistics to support my theory, for I have not tracked lottery tickets purchases year-over-year, but it is reasonable to assume that my lottery ticket purchases spiked with day job dissatisfaction, and there were many, many unsatisfying technical writing assignments.
What had I expected? Well, I guess I imagined bells sounding my win. Sure, I was an occasional player, but I was savvy enough to know that the machine would chime. There was silence. Either the bells did not exist on the machines back then, or they were disabled. I expected, maybe, the gathering of a small crowd around the kiosk because I would scream so pitchy, like when I got angry at our dog Hudson for barfing on the carpet, that office workers would gather and mill around to congratulate me. They were all so very pleased for me, genuinely pleased. My co-workers might be less thrilled, I imagined, but eventually they would forgive me when they read my well-received novel. There were no bells. The vendor just shook his head. That could not be I reasoned. I asked for the ticket back. Something was wrong. I had won the lottery and a machine, this machine, was telling me that I was wrong. He continued about his business, futzing around behind the counter. I asked again. I insisted. I think that made him angry. His already dour face soured. He slipped behind the machine and fiddled again then walked to a garbage bin within my view and tore up tickets. Was this my ticket? Had he just thrown out my lucky numbers? I was silenced.
As much as I hate to admit it, my husband was right. After our nearly $30,000 win, any future purchases cut into our profits.
It has been several years since my millions were nicked by a greedy, crotchety, old man, but often, too often, I wonder if the thieving ticket retailer is relaxing on my yacht, sending his kids to private school with my money, or simply writing the great Canadian novel that would otherwise have my nom de plume on the cover. Is he teaching teens on Native reserves, so that they do not have to leave home to get a high school education? Has he established an arts program for children and at-risk youth? Did he finally create that writing program for teenagers on the verge of dropping-out of high school that I have dreamed about for years? Did he contribute a whack of dough to Toronto’s Hospital for Sick Children? Had he travel across Canada, bringing supplies and books to northern communities? Did he purchase a cozy cottage with lakefront property? Did he wake every morning at dawn and write for five or six hours looking out the large, uncovered picture window at the water? Was he writing books of poetry? Inspiring personal essays? Was he living a writer’s life?
Gambling by its very nature is a win or lose proposition. Sometimes you’re up, sometimes you’re down, but you have to play to win. Without that promise, there’s no excitement.
Recently, I placed another bet: I purchased tickets in Lotto Advance. I placed my bet, and let it ride. The paperwork has taken much of the thrill out of playing, but the potential payoff is worth it.
This time I’m playing for keeps.