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Photo by Gail Harvey, no reproduction without permission
A Day Job By Any Other Name As is our custom, the wife and I went for a healthy stroll this morning. The avoidance of pernicious cabin fever is very important at this time of year in Ontario, and so we brave the elements for as long as we can. These outdoor chats aren’t completely self-propelled: yet another instance of dog-as-life-coach that works extremely well for all concerned. Otherwise we all start barking for no reason, mid-day, and that can be upsetting for the cat, he who seems to have no need for anything but bowls of creamy meat and long stretches of slumber and expensive medications.
Sometimes, out for a walk in the village, other humans happen along. Unlike Toronto, where you can nod and speed up to avoid further chit-chat, or feign extreme importance by pointing angrily at your watch while also spontaneously losing your command of English, out here in the wilds we tend to employ a very peculiar, antiquated phrase: “Good morning!” Which either satisfies or provokes more talking. Depending on your mood, your schedule and other factors, the latter result can be a mixed blessing. And say you decided to see everything that happens every day as some sort of signal from the universe. That every conversation outside the Domestic Gabatorium was intended to teach you something, show you a path or test you like the Sphinx. [Quite honestly, I think that’s the quickest path to going fully nuts, but hey, sometimes reading into every little thing makes a woman happy, so you indulge yourself and, these days, you get to be thought of as New Agey instead of just Batshit Crazy.] So along comes a fellow human who asks you what you do for a living. Wife answers truthfully. I, on the other hand, engage in extra-long pause. Not because I do anything sordid for a living, or because I just lost everything in mutual funds, but because experience has taught me that answering honestly can bring about all manner of responses. Wait, let me re-phrase: experience SHOULD have taught me to NEVER tell anyone that I’m a writer. EVER. Not in a bar, not in a doctor’s office, and especially not on a long flight. NEVER.
But why not? It must be wonderful to be a writer and tell people as much! Well, okay, maybe there are far worse professions to admit to. If you tell people you’re a shrink, they start telling you their problems, or worse, about the issues of ‘a friend’. Lawyer? Likely everyone at the table suddenly has a ‘hypothetical’ legal issue they’ve ‘always wondered about.’ Chiropractors are likely up to their craniums in unsolicited tales of aches and pains. I shouldn’t whine about what happens when you tell people “I’m a writer.” I should find comfort in the fact that upon confessing the truth of my occupation, turns out whole legions of fellow humans have the exact same affliction. It’s not the fact that people have stories to tell that startles me afresh each time this happens. As an avid reader and moviegoer, I’m damned glad the human population keeps feeling compelled. But just like a lawyer who stands patiently by listening to a [gratis] tale of woe about a vile litigious neighbour who x-y-z x-y-z for the blah blah time, writers don’t usually want to hear the words “Have I got a book idea for YOU!” when they’re just out trying to shave some flab off their deskbound chair-warmers. Two reasons: we prefer to steal our material via eavesdropping or other crooked means, and well, because a lot of the time it means hearing about how “easy” it is to dash off a half dozen manuscripts, often poorly disguised tributes to the speaker’s own capacity for surviving the grinding dullness of an over-examined life. Also, well, let's just all go home and type, shall we?
So, after much thought, I’ve decided to tell people I’m a proctologist.
The other problem with telling people you’re a writer is the ease with which the measuring and judging commence. On the one hand, it’s so irrational as to be hilarious. Joe: I’m, well, I’m a writer actually. Interrogator: REALLY???? Have you published anything????? Joe: Uhm, yes, a novel called [insert title here]. Interrogator: WOW! I’ve never heard of that one. I’ll be sure to look for it at the library. [failing to see ironical connection to previous statement:] Did you sell lots of copies? Make lots of money??? Joe: Praaaaaaaaaaahhhhhtttt. Interrogator: What’s that? Joe: Nothing, just my consumption acting up again.
Non-writers do love to assess writers. In Canada, it may be an official hobby. Or it could be some form of population control, hard to say. Examples: The walk as proof of laziness: “Out for another walk again. Ha! Well she’s no Rousseau.” Books too short to be taken seriously?: “Well, he’s no Tolstoy. His last book weighed in under 250 pages! Must be losing steam.” Books too long?: “That last one was a real door-stop! Christ, who has time? I’d rather watch TV!” View of daily life: “Must be NICE to sit around all day in your pyjamas with nothing to do but stare out the window and worry about the human condition.” Poet? “I don’t get it---why does it take her five years to string together a few confusing words in little columns?” Won an award?: “Well just see what he/she does for an encore, that’s the REAL proof of talent! Anyone can win a prize.” Didn’t win a literary prize?: “Yeah, well, it wasn’t very good anyway, I heard it kind of lags in the last third anyway. I only read Irish authors anyhow.” Just published a novel?: “What are you working on NOW?”
Yes, that’s right. From now on, when asked what I do for a living, I’m going to lie. How many boring stories or rude professional questions would a proctologist have to endure? My guess is very few. A few bad jokes from the very brave, or the thrill of freaked-out silence. My first impulse was to always say “I’m a proctologist. On probation from the College of Physicians and Surgeons.” But that sounds suspiciously dramatic, like something a writer would say. The beginning of the end, so to speak...
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