Pop Quiz

It was at dinner with friends. Or was it Christmas at the in-laws when your husband introduced you to the neighbors?  You just remember that you were literally against a wall, trying to avoid that conversation starter until you were ready. But then a flurry of people came in and you just had to be introduced; it would be bad etiquette if you didn't. Which is probably why it happened. Your fight or flight reaction kicked in, and you always fly. Your mind sprinted to the nearest door that had the answer. You're breathing normally, so at least you are not having a panic attack just yet. However you feel your eyes widen as you see the oncoming question.

"What do you do?"
I'm a writer.
"What do you write?
Oh short stories for now.  A novel eventually.

It was the Freudian slip you weren't ready to tell people just yet.  You had hoped by the time people would inquiry about your new position there would be something to show for it.  However those were people who knew that you took the leap.  Or the fall as you often refer to it because it's only a matter of time before you hit the bottom. Right now you are just floating. These are people you've never met. Before it was simple you could have an answer that people had a vague idea what you did. But you don't do that now.  Now your hole is dug, so prepare to get comfortable. 

People always seem to catch you at the one moment when you were doing nothing.  Perhaps that why you work so hard at everything you do. Then again you had to say something.  You are too old to be the shy person hiding behind the tallest person next to you.  Besides, it never worked when you were young anyways because your mother would never let you.

And if you keep telling enough people perhaps it will eventually come true, right? 

Now it just sounds too much like a white lie.

Empty. Hollow. Just a bit fake.  A word with no substance that was simply left hanging in mid-sentence.  You don't like that feeling.  It's as simple as that.  You are not one of those people who say something and not mean it.  It's a flaw that you have.  After years and years you've finally accepted it.  Just like how you cannot feign niceties no matter how hard you try.  So it's hard enough to tell people you are a writer who has only just begun to write.

What do you have to show for it?  Nothing.  Just notes here and there. To show them a notebook of potential ideas would be like handing in a thesis with at least ten possible conclusions.  Nothing you can hypothetically present to them and say "This is what I've written."

You never would but at least you have evidence. 

Which means you must write something. A phrase. A sentence. A paragraph. A page. This is the unexpected push you need to write.  If you keep up this life that you must keep writing until it is true. You must take those whimisical, witty thoughts that come to you throughout the hours of the days and string them together into something singular and coherent.  In other words you need to give yourself purpose.  Suddenly it occurs to you that you really have been caught doing nothing.

You've been biding your time until a vision comes to you and hands you your book without any effort.  Waiting until you tire of the freedom of being able to do whatever is your whim, and say to yourself "this is enough, I'm ready to go back." But you don't want to go back to that rigid schedule of mundane tasks.  This is the first time in a long while where you have to make yourself productive.  Up until this point you've been doing nothing but busy work.  Isn't it about time that you create something that you can show and tell?

With each person you tell you must prove them them and yourself that you do what you say you are. And you can't do that without writing.  Not just writing, but organizing those creative thoughts into directional roads that you can finally walk on.  It's a reason they call it the road less traveled. You can't sneak by that inevitable question because it will always come up. 

Always.

And you will always have to give the same answer, unless want to give up this dream.  Since you don't, you should probably practice at least saying it. Eventually your voice will strengthen each time someone inquires about your occupation. Your throat will not stutter nor will your voice have that meek and mousy tone. No more awkward pauses hoping they will forget what they just asked.

It will be assertive and confident. One day you will even mean it.

Now say it with me (it really is on the tip of your tongue): 

You are a writer.

This is Not the Life You are Looking For

It's strange when you've realized you've grown up a bit. That the current path you're taking is not one you would encourage on anyone. Despite people asking you how they can do it too. Instead you discourage them as much as possible because it's hard and lonely. Your discouragement slowly resembles the same negative passion your husband exudes when discussing the best method to vegetarianism.

To others a path of a writer is fantastical and free. You are breaking away from being just a cog in a wheel that turns from 9 to 5. You are living the dream. You are taking the leap. But this is not a life for others no matter how bad they want it. Unless you are able to support yourself to live, whether by means through a significant other or family, by all means follow those dreams. If you are able to support yourself and not worry earning the next paycheck, by all means follow them. But it is your own opinion that you feel that unless all other life priorities are taking care of, does one finally have the permission of persuing dreams.

But who's dream is it? Don't those other people realize how hard it is to occupy yourself when it was formally replaced with daily tasks that would eventually improve said company and profit. Now you have to decide yourself how to be productive. But this does not mean you should sleep late and do nothing.

Right now it is definitely not a dream to you. Yes, you don't have to worry about paying rent or food. However you've sat at the computer with a blank page for days. Writing is an old friend you haven't caught up with in years, and meeting up again is awkward. You have no words, and what words you have to say to do not carry beyond a page. What happened to the days when you use to write for hours and days?

You are the bird with the broken wing. And relearning how to fly is hard. But you do it because you have to and its been in a sling for too long. You've forgotten what it was like to experience life for the sake of the experience; to say you've done this or that. In college you promised to live your life this way because that was how you got a good story.

“Write what you know.” Isn't that what they said?

But you've graduated and you've forgotten that promise, so it was only natural to help someone else's path than your own. You wanted to reconnect but the sight of paycheck was just as pleasing. You could afford Anna Sui and Betsey Johnson now. Having someone else give you a to-do list is so much easier. The only real task was to figure out the most efficient method to accomplish them. Then on a Tuesday while sitting on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum waiting to go to the Alexander McQueen exhibit, a thought stuck out in your mind.

Wouldn't it be nice to write about this?

You wondered why you never just sat down and enjoyed the air, observed the people walking to their mysterious destinations. You always had to be on the move -- even when you ate by yourself. You could never relax or sit down for a breath. You weren't a tourist. Tourists enjoyed the city without the concern of being somewhere more important. That's why they stand in the middle of the street to photography their family. They do not know better.

New Yorkers take it for granted. Perhaps that's why they live here; to being around the myriad of metropolitan opportunities without taking advantage of them. They exist within walking distance and available to them at anytime; they just choose not to. Ironically you are also a New Yorker, but now you have to time to experience it. And while you've forgotten how to write, you miss it. You are unsure of what the end of the means of writing is quite yet. All you know is to keep writing and hope something comes out of it. This takes time.

Time which you need to reconnect with the world on a different level. You need to remember what it meant to be the observer and watcher. Before you were too concerned about the next workday when the previous has yet to end. You realize you must aimlessly take a walk. You need to go outside because you know you are unproductive when your only company are the refridgerator hums and a blank white page.

Right now you can't write because you feel you have nothing to write about.

Without writing you must experience something everyday in hopes that you will write about it later. Without experiencing life you cannot write about it later.