"Hey,' they say, 'I haven't seen you in so long. What are you doing now?" "Oh, I pursuing other things, so...." Now you have to tell them, after they ask you what you're doing, and you just blurt it out:
"I'M A WRITER."
(Holy Mother of Goog! Did I just say that to someone other than the dogs and cats? Did that come out of MY MOUTH? In public - - outside of the house? Where it's unsafe, and, and, and... Why are they smiling at me like that? Oh, cock-knocking-son-of-a-whore-to-hell! Now I have to follow through with this and I don't know if I've got what it takes or not! I live in my f--king pajamas and diamond earrings. I've only the barest of fleshed out kid's book!! My mother likes it, but she's hard-wired to like it, and she's lying her ass off because she's my mother!!!)
That's my morning in a nutshell. Yup. I ran into this old friend and former client at the local Dunkin' Donuts, whom I'll call Ezra. He was one of my favorites; a well-educated and well-traveled, very intellectual guy whose charming and eccentric wife, whom I'll call Electra, passed away several years ago. They were a fantastic, exciting couple; the kind of people you wanted to know for a lifetime because they entered a room with an "oh, there YOU are" feeling. I mourned Electra's passing with Ezra, and he trudges along without her, never to be the same again. There's a great mutual admiration between us. You'd want to sip single malt with this guy.
Ezra hailed my new "career" as stellar and wished me all the luck in the world, not seeing any reason whatsoever why I won't be the next John Steinbeck. That's how he is. I told him I "hoped he lived long enough to see me become famous," as he's now in his early 80's. We laughed and went our separate ways. I certainly hope I live long enough to see my own fame and fortune!!!
Samuel Johnson is quoted as saying "When a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully." My mind is now a bit more concentrated than it was, Sam, and I can see the gallows in my mind's eye. Say now, that might be a good idea. I'll go make up a symbolic noose and hang it in one of the trees that I can see from my computer chair. Perhaps I could some sort of effigy in it to symbolize the death of my old profession? I'll think of something. I always do.
I once made a voodoo doll for a pal who was going to take over working for my awful attorney when I left. It looked exactly like him complete with velcro rip-off limbs and head. She needed something to take her frustrations out on, being only a few years from her pension. This guy was a misogynistic, twitchy, philandering, knucklehead who thought himself a ladies man and had perpetual jock itch or "something." What is it with some men who cannot leave their junk alone? What IS that? It's attached isn't it? It's not magnetic where gravity might have some say as to where it ends up after walking across the room, right? Or like a compass where it points true north so you have to wiggle it around depending on which way you're facing? (By the way, I've had enough exposure to said "instrument" that these questions are purely rhetorical in nature.) And, let me tell you, gents - - we can see you do this even if we're making eye contact. Peripheral vision is both a blessing and a curse.
"The story of the human race is the story of men and women selling themselves short." Abraham Maslow. This quote speaks eloquently of many people's lives. If I had played it dumb, or dumbed down my resume in any way, to get any of the jobs I've applied for thus far, I would be miserable now. As it stands, I'm very happy being unemployed and striking out at this writing life I've spoken up for. I've gone and said those three little words, "I'm a writer." And so I am.