I still don't tell acquaintances that I write- when they ask what I do, I tell them about my part-time day job and make jokes about any other questions. They look at me like I'm pathetic, and then change the subject.
My good friends and my family know about it, but even they don't know what kind of time I put in every day, or what my goals really are. They think I'm a slacker and a dreamer, and that one day I'll come to my senses and call back all the law schools I applied to last year and beg them to take my money and put me back on my lists. The people close to me try and be supportive, but... you know that phrase, it's always good to have a doctor in the family? No one ever says that's it's always good to have a writer.
It can be hard dealing with their disappointment. Of course, it would be harder to give up writing, so the only option is to suck it up- which I'm (obviously, lol) still learning to do. One way of avoiding their attempts to humor me is to not bring up writing at all. It's also my way of trying to not bore them- if I get started on one of my stories, etc, I never shut up.
I try to stay sweet and cheerful and keep my whip-cracking and brain-storming and editing and typing and general angst to my area of the basement. But sometimes I get pretty frustrated- with all the belittling comments, with the digs, with always being broke, with always having to be grateful (for cheap rent, for time, for being "humored" by people around me), with having people assume my time is free because I'm not spending it at on office, with always being the intense, scary person in every writing discussion, with always having higher hopes than anyone else, with never having enough time, with no respect or validation, with my own cold-heartedness and ambition, with the way my life is so uncertain.
With hearing people say, "Well, if those are your priorities..." in an ugly, contemptuous tone, because they've called to chat in the middle of my writing time and I need to call them back.
The people around me act like my decision to be a writer is a HUGE self-indulgence, that they're willing to let slide- for now. Yeah, maybe it IS self-indulgent. Maybe I am a talentless, hopeless, delusional brat.
But what I don't get is: why do they assume that they aren't just as talentless, hopeless, self-indulgent and delusional?
Why is writing more self-indulgent than living a life in which you have money and time to spend on dates and dinners out, an (above ground) apartment of your own, maybe even hobbies? A life with the luxury of BOREDOM, for God's sake. And health insurance. And co-workers. Bonuses and promotions for hard work. A sensible, dependable career path. A life in which, when people ask what you do, you can actually answer and not have them look at you like you're a crippled dog.
I don't want to be a spoiled kid screaming "That's not fair!" So when I'm around people I swallow my tongue and pretend I don't care about writing, either. I don't tell them about my real job, I don't fill out stupid on-line surveys, and I stick to conversation topics like: T.V. and gossip and horoscopes and food. But I want SO badly to be around people who care about and think about writing like I do.
That's the point of this blog, and the reason I post every day.
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