March 31, 2008
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“What do you do for a living?”
I blink at the tall and deliciously dark Brazilian Google programmer.
He rewords the question: “What do you spend the most time on?”
“I boss people around,” I prevaricate.
“Wow…. How can I get a job like that?” he jokes.
“I’m contracted by a pharmaceutical company, working on vaccines for the pandemic bird flu,” my sister puts in with a flirtatious tone. Mentally, I stick my tongue out at her.It bugs me that I have such personal problems with just telling people I work at a pet store. They always get this…. disappointed look. And they’ve known me for two shots and a song in the dark. Why should that matter so much to me? I haven’t figured out yet how to get over that….
Because they never really ask what exactly I Do at the pet store. From the expression on their faces, I’ve been relegated to a mindless drone working in retail. Should I bother to correct them without prompting? Should I exert the effort to tell them: yes, I oversee a staff of ten people in a store that ranks in the top 25 of 800 in the company located on a main road of Silicon Valley and we’re doing very well and have the potential to lead the industry within the next 5 years or so. *Sigh*
Fuck.
I’ve tried telling people that I write – I’m a writer.
Then they ask what I write about – have they read any of my works – do I make a lot of money off it, since it’s such a fickle career.
I always want to tell them to fuck off after that.After being a blogger for a handful of years, I know now that I’m not just writing for myself. It’s impossible when everything gets flung out into the ether and people run around with their butterfly nets trying to catch entertainment or information or the simple understanding that I’m going through it, I’ve been there, everything will turn out ok because here’s the path I’m treading through the danger and the darkness and you can hold my hand or follow me until you can find your own path again.
And then someone suggests I should make money off it. Become a troll taking tolls at the bridge between despair and hope. Or have someone tell me that I’m not good enough at something I’m so obviously helpful at. To “make a living” would kill me.
But it’s not all open hands and sacrifices, not at all – never believe that. Because every reader gives up time to read, maybe even thinks about something I wrote, applies it for a millisecond to a decision in her day, whatever…. and should I ever need anything be it advice on what car to buy, where to visit for my next vacation, how to deal with the repetitious disappointments of single-hood, what I need is here – somewhere. And I bring out my own butterfly net and start running.
