I was working feverishly, obsessively on my manuscripts in the hopes that, like the great Dickens, even just one would have set me up for life, and washed away all of my debts along with my one tattered outfit. However it was this singular drive that had caused me to neglect my finances until it was too late, and the prospects of a debtors prison was soon approaching.

It was difficult to pin point the exact moment my family and I had become poor. There had originally been money in my family, but that was at least a century ago, when in her wisdom, my great great grandmother, a singular genius lost to history as so many great women are, had convinced one of the great and noble gentlemen of her era to help invest in the aftermath of the American Revolution. They were a most remarkable team, and she through means of her spectacular mind for investing, had convinced him to share in the profits. It was this mind that had been passed down through the Generations, mixing with the finest grade of genius that the globe had to offer, ultimately landing, after having been distorted by the passage of time, with me. It was not the madness of wall street that attracted me though, and having nothing left of my families once vast wealth, I set off to university, with the intention of becoming a great author. 

It was there that I had been driven to prove myself among my male peers, it was there I had reinforced again, and again the terrible truth, that being a man held a higher status in the world, with considerably less effort. This, coupled with my own personal inclinations had led me to the wearing of clothes deemed inappropriate by most high society, I didn't care. I still don't. So it was that, I, finding myself in Massachusetts, in my tattered, mildewed pants-suit, picked up the first of the three letters, one that had been addressed from Melbourne, Australia.