BOOKISH: I am a Writer… Maybe

I have no problem thinking of myself as a writer. I just don’t say it out loud, except among other writers. Why? What’s wrong with me? Probably a lot, but let’s get productive, because my experience, in my experience, is not unique.

I guess, first and foremost, I don’t earn my living writing. I make a few grand each year from magazines, but that doesn’t put me over. I’m not a professional writer, not according to the Oxford Dictionary:

pro·fes·sion·al

adjective

1. engaged in a specified activity as one’s main paid occupation rather than as a pastime.

Main paid occupation? Nope.

I don’t tell people I’m a writer. Not at parties. Or airports. Or especially meeting in-laws. There’s too many questions. What? Where? How come? It’s easier to skip it.

One thing I can’t skip is paying taxes. Uncle Sam seems to think I’m quite the writer. I remember my new accountant wrinkling his forehead over receipts. What’s this? he said. Those are from magazines, I told him.

“And this?” It was a royalty statement from my book of poems. Something like seventy-eight dollars. And forty-seven cents. You remember stuff like that.

The accountant wrote something, then tapped his computer. “We have to find a place for this.” He spoke softly to himself. “Everything must have a place.” A tap and pause. “Ah! Here it is. This is where your writing goes.”

“Where?”

“Hobby income.”

Thanks pal.

A few years ago I went to one of those big book fairs. BookFest, I think they called it. I like going to these things. I sort of sneak in and wander around. Event helpers, smiling and bright-eyed, mixed with the crowd. They handed out round, green stickers to anyone who wanted one. These read, I Am a Writer.

I didn’t take one. But hundreds wore them, as well as the authors sitting at row after row of tables, hawking their books.

I Am a Writer.

Wouldn’t think you’d need to say that. A whiff of insecurity there, a he doth protest too much kinda thing. Maybe they felt more like me than they were letting on.

Sales at these tables were slow. Exceedingly so, I know because I asked. I’d say more people wore stickers than bought books. A lot more, which explains the tepid sales. With more writers than readers, it’s simple math.

I’m sorry gang, don’t listen to me. What a downer I can be. We’re all writers, and that’s the truth. My reticence may be just an esteem issue. I think they have groups for that.

GROUP: But you are a writer, Richard! You are!

ME: Okay.

GROUP: You’re just insecure. You need to believe in yourself!

ME: Okay.

Scanning chairs, I am surprised by a few familiar faces. Stephen King. Colleen Hoover. Elizabeth Strout. David Sedaris (ugh! David Sedaris!) All glowing with complete, unquestioned self-esteem. All wearing I Am a Writer stickers.

That’s it. I’m outta here.