I don't remember exactly what led up to that judgment. We were hanging out and talking, having a good time. I expect these episodes to taper off as she inches closer to her teenage years and I become an idiot, which somehow always seem to happen at the same time in the mother-daughter relationship. Anyway, she said something, and I responded, "Well, I guess you're not going to be a writer like your mom." To which she replied, "Pfff. You're not a writer."
I think it was the Pfff that hurt.
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Pfff. |
"Well, yeah," she said, with a level of assurance I can only dimly remember from being 12 years old and knowing every damn thing in the world, "but not a professional writer."
Meaning, I suppose, that hardly anyone reads what I write, and absolutely no one pays me for it.
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At least I look the part. |
In fact, people started paying me to be a writer and editor when I was a freshman in college. And pretty much every job I've ever had has involved writing, editing, proofreading, etc. to a significant degree. Of course, like most "professional" writers, I always dreamed of a being a "real" writer. I don't know what I actually meant by that distinction, which maybe is why it's never happened. At least not on a paying basis.
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Shakespeare had his priorities straight. Prose before hoes, y'all. |
Some of this stuff is absolute shit.
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Saved from utter worthlessness by the fact that paper can be burned for warmth, even with crappy writing on it. |
When I started this little blog two and a half years ago, I hadn't made any strides toward being a "real" writer in a long time. I was constantly writing and editing technical reports and other things at my job, but I had all but stopped writing anything that meant anything to me. Life got in the way - family and work and all the extracurriculars that fill up our days and months and years - but more than that, I got in my own way. I let myself give up on my dream of being a "real" writer because I couldn't figure out how to make it come true. And when I finally reached a point where I felt like a failure, it wasn't because I hadn't achieved wealth or fame, but because I had stopped trying.
So I started writing again. I became Chuck Baudelaire and began ranting about religion and politics and candy bars. And my Beloved Spouse and my Precocious Daughter and my favorite music and whatever I thought I could shape into something that someone might enjoy reading. Even if - especially if - I were the only one enjoying it.
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Fortunately, I crack myself up. |
Here's the thing. I have freaking issues.
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Move over, my friend. I'm sure there's room for both of us. |
Ask any aspiring artist, musician, actor, or dancer if they know what I'm talking about.
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Stylish and very, very practical. |
Here's the point. I crumbled a little when PDaughter matter-of-factly stated that I'm not a writer. But I was able to tell her, with great dignity and maturity, "Nuh -UH." Because I think I am a writer, even if no one else does.
Because if I don't, no one else ever will.
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