On How I Introduce Myself

"What do you do?"

Let me tell you what I don't do.

I don’t "light up the room."

I don’t steal the spotlight at dinner parties.

I don’t deliver punchlines that leave people in stitches.

At best, what you can expect is a polite chuckle. Or a snort.

You’ve already forgotten me, haven’t you? Of course you have. I’m forgettable.

Except for one thing.

When someone asks what I do, in that vaguely disinterested way people have when they're waiting for their turn to talk, I tell them straight:

"I'm a writer."

Not an aspiring writer. Not a dilettante who likes to write. Not building a brand or chasing a following.

I'm a writer.

It's more than a job description. It's terminal.

Compulsive observation, periodic isolation, acute sensitivity to human behaviour.

Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. And unrepentant.

I’m a writer.

Could I be something else? Sure. The world's full of sensible careers. Accountant. Lawyer. Engineer. Something with a dental plan, a retirement package and a soul filed in triplicate.

Ask a shark if it wants to be a bicycle.

I'm a writer.

Let them dance for likes. Let them perform their little skits in 30-second clips. Chase whatever's trending this week. Bravo. Good for them.

I don’t need to be beautiful, or charming. When I write, I am.

When I look at a blank page, I have things to say.

And when I read noise, I'm looking for music.

I’m a writer.

Every conversation is research. Every heartbreak is material. Every joy is ammo. Every silence is a first draft or a revision.

Everything else – the job, the designation, the tax returns – it’s all camouflage.

The world loves labels. Partner. Friend. Stranger. All true.

But not the truth.

I'm a writer.

Not pride.

Not ambition.

A fact.

Like gravity.

Like tomorrow.

Like death, taxes and evening traffic.

I’m a writer.

What do you do?