Part One: The Wage Slave
“And what do you do?”.
For nearly thirty years I had to contend with this question at parties, in the pub or in the street when meeting somebody for the first time. And I never managed to formulate an answer that did not make me feel uncomfortable and embarrassed. The conversation usually went something like this:
“And what do you do”?
(Please don’t ask that question).
“I work for the Government” or “I’m a civil servant”.
“Oh, what department do you work in?” or “you work for the council then do you?”
(Please don’t ask that question either).
“I work in social security”.
(Here we go – I’ve never claimed a penny in my life / they are all scroungers / all you do is drink tea all day waiting to pick up your fat pension / my granny is not getting all her benefits, can you help me if I give you her details – or some permutation of the foregoing).
(Now what do I say? Express an opinion, provoking a heated debate, change the subject or walk away?).
Sometimes, a sympathetic shrug and weak smile would dull the interest. And I could often dredge up the hardy excuse that that was not my particular area of expertise. Either way, the conversation would always dribble to an unsatisfactory conclusion.
The irony is, of course, that I did perform a valuable function on behalf of the British taxpayer, whatever the tabloid press might wish to feed the electorate. And, working in welfare, I did contribute, probably in a smaller way than I would have liked, to reducing unemployment, alleviating child poverty or making the lives of the elderly and infirm more dignified and comfortable.
But I could rarely make that leap from modest self-gratification to public pride when confronted by someone who did a job that was, or was perceived to be, more productive.
I’m sure there are many other jobs that incite similar reactions, but welfare is one area where everyone has a stake – after all, most pay taxes and national insurance, and know people either who are claiming or who should not, in their view, be claiming. More to the point, they believe that that entitles them to have an opinion, irrespective of its value, that they own a piece of you and that you are fair game, even when off duty, for a favour or an argument.
Part Two: Gentleman of Leisure
Yesterday, a taxi driver shipping me and two weighty bags full of Sainsbury’s ready meals to my octogenarian father asked me whether it was my day off and what did I do (to earn a living). Here we go – confidence and pride be my companions now. Frying pan and fire spring immediately to mind as, for the first time since announcing to myself that I am now a writer, someone has tested that new resolve and self-confidence.
“I’m actually retired from the civil service – I know I don’t look old enough (why must I always add that, one day it won’t be true), but ……. (deep breath) I’m doing some writing now (phew, got that out, move on quickly), and I need to keep a regular eye on my father, doing all his shopping, washing, ironing and so on.
(Think I got the mention of writing in ok but he’ll have forgotten that bit by now).
“Oh, going to write your memoirs now about working for the Government?” What was it exactly that you did?”
But all of that is nothing to the reaction I now get when informing people that I am a writer (there I said it).
For several years after leaving the service, and even after having had a book published, and managing a blog, I could never get beyond saying I was unemployed – in fact I don’t think I’ve ever said that (such a snob), though, technically, it could have been argued that, as I was then still below pensionable age, that might be true.
But as I had a regular source of income, namely my occupational pension, which, by the way could not be termed “fat” by any stretch, I tended to fall back on the word “retired”. Even then, and now for that matter, when my income has been supplemented by what my parents’ generation, more appropriately for the time, termed the “old age pension”, I certainly don’t recognise that word in relation to my current lifestyle. I am fortunate that I am relatively healthy for my age, which allows me to be active, both physically and mentally.
What I wanted to scream out every time is that I was “a writer”. When I did manage to blurt it out, it was usually only after I have already said “retired” – my vanity prompting me to provoke envious or admiring noises about the fact that I didn’t look it! (I should add that such comments are less often forthcoming as time passes)!
But it’s not only myself who struggled with the word, however strongly I felt that it defined what I now was and did. People to this day don’t know what to say beyond “what have you written” (as if they’re likely to have heard about, let alone read or been interested in, anything you’d penned) or “have you had anything published”.
Many will profess to be impressed and claim that they too “have a book in them” or “have always wanted to write”. But they have no understanding of what it means to be a writer, to look at and think about the world through a writer’s eyes.
In fact, the declaration intimidates, and immediately labels you as odd (“different” might be a more charitable word), or – worse still – an intellectual, an accusation, for that is what it is, my underdeveloped capacity for reasoned thought disqualifies me from pleading guilty to.
The idea that I could spend my time writing, or not even writing, but planning and thinking about it, is incomprehensible. It’s not a serious pursuit, especially if it doesn’t pay.
It was difficult enough in those years immediately after I left the service, when I was working towards my travel and tourism qualification, when I would (always) have to raise the subject myself in conversation. But at least that was a worthy, tangible product, enabling friends to ask “have you completed any more of your assignments” or “what grade did you get for the assignment on preparations for the 2012 Olympics”?
I’ve always regarded myself as somewhat of an outsider – some might attest that it stems, in part at least, from being an only child. My circle of friends was always a small one, and I never had the need, or indeed desire, to join groups, other than sporting teams – Sunday school and the Cub Scouts were my parents’ idea, and I did not survive either very long.
So I learnt to be broadly satisfied with my own company (crucial for a writer), whilst not repudiating altogether my Libran credentials for sociability. In engaging with others though, both in the personal and work spheres, I’ll confess that it has invariably been on my own terms, whereby I have tended to “take charge”, to be the one to plan and organise activities.
Part Three: Revelation
Well, now, rather like the ugly duckling in the Danny Kaye song, I have finally come to accept that my feathers are no longer “stubby and brown”, but rather that I am, if not a “very fine” one, at least a swan.
The particular flock of swans that opened my eyes to this fact did not, perhaps surprisingly, come in the form of my first published book in 2013, but rather from reading the books of Kristen Lamb, namely Not Alone – the Writer’s Guide to Social Media and Are You There Blog – I’m a Writer.
As the titles suggest, the focus of the books is on the need of writers today to manage social media and adjust to the fact that traditional publishing often has a less important part to play.
Kristen goes straight to the heart of my ongoing dilemma:
When people ask you what you do, you need to tell them, “I’m an author”
or “I am a writer”…………As long as you introduce yourself via your day
job (other than writer), then you are telling your subconscious that
you want to be that day job FOREVER. Don’t even try to cheat with
“I am an aspiring writer”. Again, this is a subconscious cue,
and twenty years later, you will still be “aspiring”.
Of course, since I first read this, writing has effectively become one of my “day jobs”. But the argument is no less powerful.
Kristen also addresses, with customary humour, the embarrassment factor that accompanies that brave declaration with:
If you want others to shut up and stop mocking you, just tell them
they had better knock it off because there is a part for a nose-picking circus
midget with mommy issues in your novel. Then they might agree to play nice.
And finally:
Screw aspiring. Aspiring is for pansies. Takes guts to be a writer. Yes, other
people will titter and roll their eyes, but you won’t care. In the meantime,
toughen up. You will need the skin of a rhino in this business. Do not look
for outside approval. This is about as productive as looking
for unicorns or Sasquatch.
So, I have no hesitation today in proclaiming that that is exactly what I “am” – a writer.
After all, what do I spend much of my time doing – yes, writing. Poems, blog, Facebook, Twitter, e mails, forums – all writing. This is what I do.
In fact, when asked today what I do, in addition to my walking tours business, proudly and unhesitatingly I reply by saying I am, not just a writer but a poet,
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Tony Quarrington 