four pointing back
“-but then my friend Maria came over and brought drinks with her and then we totally were just all hanging out after that.”
“Oh,” I said. “Sweet.” She was a cool enough girl, and we’d gotten along great before, but as far as dates went I had lost interest in this one some time ago and was sleepwalking my way through the rest of it. I went to my next generic conversation question and tossed it her way. “What else are you up to these days?”
“Oh, you know, trying to get a writing job. Hopefully. I mean I hope I can get one. I haven’t looked around much. I’m still technically freelancing for the paper, but that’s some work, you know? I mean, you really have to put yourself out there, and pitch a story, and then bust your ass to go do some research and then they still might not want to run it.”
“Sure,” I said. And there it was again.
I have any number of skills I excel at, but are neither marketable nor worth mentioning to an employer. For example, “Able to keep an interested smile in place when fury suddenly bubbles up inside” is not something you’ll ever see listed on my résumé.
She was still talking. I had turned my head to one side and looked down, contemplating my pint glass, in a pose that might mean I was listening, but maybe not to anything in the bar. Jesus. Urr.
-Little upset, are we? You figure out why yet?
Figure out what?
-This is the third time since you sat down that she’s said something that you reacted to by getting angry inside. There’s a common theme, if you haven’t put it together yet.
And what’s that?
-She fancies herself a writer. But each time she brings it up, she immediately follows it with some excuse for not actually putting in any effort towards becoming one.
Maybe. So?
-Remind you of anyone else?
I looked up then, at the mirror that lined the back of the bar, and locked angry gazes with my own reflection. Yeah. Yeah, maybe it does.
Suddenly I was draining my glass, bringing the empty pint down onto the bar, following with a stand-up-reach-for-wallet combo. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
“I - what? Okay.” She finished her drink. “Where to?”
“It doesn’t matter. The next bar. I’m just tired of being in this place.”
The other week on Twitter I called for writing prompts; Kat tossed back “Worst Date.” Although the above probably wasn’t my worst date, it was one of the only ones interesting enough to write about.
Shari, I’ll get to your prompt soon enough. Thank you both.
Eeesh. That was kind of painful to read for me. I often wonder why I never grab for that brass ring, and then I realize that I’m afraid of missing it, falling off the carousel, and smashing my face into the ground. I guess that’s the difference between me and real writers.
I feel like I just got kicked in the gut.
writing is a fickle mistress.
so are girls.
and so are boys.
I’ll have something considerably more light-hearted for tomorrow.
And fickle mistress boys are the worst.
you shouldn’t point at people with your thumb!
it’s easy if you’re double-jointed!
I felt a little uncomfortable just reading that…shit, is 7:15am too early for booze?
I don’t know… I’d be pretty damned impressed if someone otherwise qualified had the temerity to put that on his/her resume’. And let’s face it, in the workplace, that ability is absolutely essential. At least, for me. Because work, OH, it makes me rage.
Writing is hard.
(that’s all I’ve got)
What is this concept of putting off writing about stuff? I don’t understand this strange and pointless exercise of which you speak.
hilly, it’s always 5 PM someplace. help yourself!
shari, this is part of why I’d just as soon not be “at the workplace” anymore.
jennie!, if it was easy we wouldn’t care so much about it. (also: twss!)
sir, the truly ambitious should aim to put off more than just writing. ask abigail! about why you should love procrastination.
You know, I always feel a little relieved to hear that I’m not the only one. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some loafing to do.
This did kinda hurt to read. Mostly because I think everyone has been there. You hit it right on the head, though - sometimes the things people say piss us off, but we don’t always realize why.
My Dad used to ask me, every week on his Sunday 12:00 noon (to the second) phone call, “Why aren’t you playing” (music)???? “What a waste. I bet you feel like you’ve done the wrong thing with your life”. (Paraphrased to the way I interpreted it).
I hate remembering that. I hate the fact that after he’s been dead for almost three years, that’s what I remember. But, like you, it’s what I ask myself/smack myself about daily. Why did I just come up with excuses for why I didn’t do it?
I was good enough. MORE than good enough. I wish I had believed it at the time.
You?
Normally I just go for ’somewhat amusing’ on this site. Judging by all the comments I’ve gotten on this post I may have overshot right into ‘may cause mild queasiness’.
Kristin, I’ve yet to find a good reason to procrastinate when it comes to loafing.
Matt, I put myself through the computer science meat-grinder to train as a programmer rather than follow this writing thing. Wish I had thought I could go somewhere with it. I think there’s still time, though.
See, the thing about writing…it’s completely understandable to not want to make the effort to put yourself out there…because, writing is so PERSONAL. And it really hurts when you put your heart and soul into something, and to see it get rejected, time in and time out.
So, it’s just easier to say “Hey, I want to be a writer!” and then never do anything about it.
I know how it goes. I’m trying, but it’s frustrating.
Then, there is my mom, who has written around 15 novels, and NEVER tried to publish even one of them. So…does that make you feel better?
Sure, it’s easier. But where would just declaring yourself to be a writer get you?
I have an ex-friend who would do this all the time: he’d tell everyone about some grand new thing he was going to do with his life and then, having already gotten to the part where people congratulated him on his venture, he could then safely not go through with whatever it was he’d said he was going to do.
I don’t want to be that guy.
Nope. Neither do I, really.
I’m doomed to keep submitting stuff, and getting my heart broken over and over. But, I’m not going to stop writing, either.
I see myself in this post too, but it doesn’t make me queasy. On the one hand, blogging is writing.
On the other, are we all really that lazy or afraid? Or is what we think we’d like to do really what we want to do? I think if I felt strongly enough about writing as a career, I’d be pursuing it. But then I have a variety of interests conveniently duking it out to maintain my inertia.
adena, good for you. keep writing. and I have proposal for you; I’ll send it to your email.
claire, I think sometimes the thing we want to do most is what we find scary — if you weren’t so invested in it you wouldn’t have so much to lose. life would be a lot easier if that wasn’t the case, and I’d be a millionaire.
I’m up for proposals! Email away!