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What Not to Say to a Writer
As a writer, always have a sideline job you can mention at cocktail parties.
At these parties inevitably someone comes up to you and asks what you do for a living. If you say you are a writer, their very next question will be: “What have you published?” If you say, nothing, the person will sniff as if you have developed a bad odor and avoid you for the rest of the party. If you name a book, they will look you up and down and say, “I’ve never heard of it,” and avoid you for the rest of the party.
The friendly guy comes over, pats you on the back and tells you they just heard you are a writer. You know from whom! The friendly guy will tell you they have been thinking of writing a book. You perk up. A potential ally in the isolation of your writing career? You ask how long? The friendly guy laughs. “Oh, I haven’t written a word. I figure I could push out a book over the weekend. Writing can’t be that hard to do.”
The friendly guy leaves and you are blindsided by a young lady dressed in black with blood purple lipstick. She stares at you. You stare back. She stares back. You smile. She stares some more. “I heard you’re a writer.” Guess from whom? You nod. She squints she is staring so hard. “What about?” You tell her “Life.” She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and whispers, “Awesome.”
You slide away while she has her eyes closed and join a group. “Oh, you’re a writer? comes from this grey-haired lady dripping in pearls. “That’s great; I have this wonderful story about something true that happened to me, and I just know that it would be a bestseller if I could find a REAL WRITER to write it up, and you could have half the money!”
Then you hear someone ask this young woman, “Are you the writer?” She shakes her head and says, “But I have this book I’m going to write when I get a free weekend.” The other person, a man speaking to her breasts, “Yeah, sounds great. Is it going to be non-fiction or fiction?” She smiles sweetly, looking at his crotch, “Oh, definitely non-fiction.” The man licks his lips, “Yeah, what about?” The young woman licks her lips, “Oh, I’m making it up.”
You turn around as a loud fellow points at you. “You’re the writer?” You nod. The loud fellow looks at everyone in the group, winks and asks you, “Can you tell me the theme of your book in one sentence?” You open your mouth and he interrupts, “Because if you can’t tell me the theme of your 400-page book then you’re not really a writer. A Real Writer will be able to shoot out one sentence that tells what the whole book is about.”
The woman next to the loud fellow says, “Like a sound bite.” The redheaded woman says, “In the movies they call that the trailer.” The loud fellow snaps his fingers, “Just like that,” and everyone nods their head. You leave to refresh your drink.
The bartender asks if you are having a good time. Always on the lookout for a good plot, you ask the bartender, “I bet you see a lot here?” The bartender hums a yes. “Must have tons of stories about things that have happened in places like this?” He nods. “Care to share one with me?” He asks, “Why? You a writer?” You beam. “Yes. Does it show?” “Nah. It’s always the writers that ask weird questions like that.”
Then he leans closer to you, “Man, how do you think up all those plots?” You wave your hand at the crowd. “There’s a thousand stories in the naked city.” He looks blank. “Look around. All of these people have something going on in their lives.” The bartender snorts. “You’re telling me. I get an earful all night. One sob story after the other. Cheez. You’d think they’d have enough of that with their therapists.” You leave your drink and the party.
You stop off at home to check on your sainted mother. “Hi, mom.” “Where have you been? I smell booze on you.” You laugh. “What have you been up to?” You open your mouth. “You still with that computer thing. Writing stories. When are you going to get serious and get a real job? Don’t you want to have a real job?” You kiss her on the cheek and tell her you love her.
You head home. Your keyboard waits for you. The hardest and best job in the world and you love it.
Well, maybe except for being a parent and a bartender.