On the day of my wedding I was still sending invitations. Hours before the ceremony I fired off one more email with no subject and no body — just a link. Someone wrote back within the hour. That was the state of things right up to the end: a webpage standing in for engraved cards, and me working the guest list from my phone on the morning I got married.
I was twenty-three. Everything that month looked like a beginning that hadn't quite decided it was a beginning.
"Mula": emailing myself our starting capital
Three days after the wedding I emailed myself one line, subject "mula," and the body was just the number. Twenty-three thousand and change in local currency. Five thousand and change in dollars. The message went out a dozen times in the same minute — phone stuttering, presumably — as if the figure deserved the repetition.
That was our starting capital as a married couple. Tallied on a Wednesday and filed to my own inbox for safekeeping. Not a business plan. A photograph of the money, taken with an email.
Around it the ordinary machinery kept turning. A pay stub from the office behind my paycheck. A slideshow from the photographer the morning after, passed around the family. Thank-you cards. Song lists my wife had been corralling from the band. And, a week before the wedding, an email that reads now like a preview of everything that came later: me pitching a DJ on a wedding-packages business — recruit the talent, build the package, take the override — six days out from my own ceremony.
A groom selling weddings. The instinct was already fully formed. I just didn't have the company yet.
A dead laptop and a two-language ad
We set up in a village where I knew almost nobody. One shared phone number for the two of us — the household and the business, same line, because there was no line between them.
Three and a half weeks into married life I sat down and worked every channel I had. Four emails in a few hours. An office-manager ad. A music-program contact. A store. And an old teacher, not about my wedding this time — about working other people's.
There was a comic obstacle in the middle. When one of them asked for my CV I had to admit the laptop had died and I hadn't backed it up. So I typed a fresh resume straight into a cloud doc — the earliest one I still have — and sent it the same day.
And that same day the other half of the plan went live. I posted to the village list in both languages: we're new here; we teach guitar, bass, piano, voice; call or message this number.
Replies came fast. I negotiated in real time. A hundred a lesson. Then eighty, "because it's more convenient for me in this area" a discount to them, framed as a convenience to me, invented on the spot in my second language. When someone asked to split an hour into twenty-minute slots I held the line: twenty minutes won't be taken seriously; I can come for two hours and do forty each, and I'll bring the price down and we'll see how it goes.
Held the standard. Cut the price. Kept the deal alive. I didn't know that was the whole trick. I just didn't want to teach a twenty-minute guitar lesson.
The metronome script under it all
Somewhere in my Drive from that winter there's a curriculum with no sentences in it. Scale exercises. Diatonic triads. Voice leading. Spelling mistakes and all.
And a first-lesson script about the metronome that I still recognize as my own voice: it will never speed up on you. Steady and reliable. Nothing fancy. And this is something we need when we're feeling pressure — a steadying voice to carry us through.
That was the month. It opened under a canopy on a Sunday and closed with a CV typed from scratch and a bilingual ad on a community list. Between those two ends: a number counted and recorded, a pay stub, a slideshow, thank-you cards, a scheme to sell wedding packages, flight prices to a city I never named here, daily study, picking mechanics, and the metronome keeping time under all of it.
Everything I've built since still runs on that month's instincts. Count the money yourself and file the photograph. Name the company before you have the company. Price is a story you tell mid-negotiation. Hold the shape of the work even when you have no leverage. And when the pressure hits, find the steady voice — nothing fancy — and let it carry you through.
The first money from something I built landed a few weeks later — twenty-three dollars and change (https://mcafax.com/notebook/the-first-23-72) in a receipt that belongs to the next chapter. This one is the wedding, the count, the dead laptop, and the metronome.
