For Myself

“And what will you be when you grow up?” asked the man in a tone which conveyed a goodhearted teasing; he meant no harm implying that I, as a 19-year old, was not “grown up.” I am not sure what he estimated I would say. He was an elder gentleman, reminding me of a grandfather with his whitened whiskers and cologne created by the use of fine tobacco. In wait in my response I watched him, watching his eyes twitch with anxious flickers of pale light. I stretched my response, toying with the element of time before I told him that I would write of what caught my eager eyes.
“Hmmph,” he objected, caught with suspended jaws deciding how best to convey his obvious discontent with the turn this conversation had taken.
“Well what are you going to do to pay the bills, then?” he asked, eyes atwinkle in his assumption that now he has stumped me, now he would cause me to consider a career change.
I am proud of my chosen profession and the thought of earning the title of a writer is worth the immense student loans, the years of dorm life, and, even the disappointment I cause in people when they ask about my career. So many seem to think that writing is a pastime, not a profession.
I stand in defense of my passion. It would bring me so much happiness to spend the time of my life chasing down ideas, trying to capture them before they are taken captive by another writer. Opportunities of ideas exist in my life everyday and I would be taunted by their presence if I did not have the opportunity to participate in this hunt. The huge population of potential stories is startling; we as writers have a function of taming the crush of stories and turning them into something digestible for the general population. The very same people who are quick to suggest that writing is only a pastime are the ones who want to read our stories as they relax after days in their chosen professions. How would this man understand that I would be responsible for his future entertainment?
I cannot convey that to him or anyone else. Without a love of writing, people cannot understand what does drive us writers to pursue our passions. People cannot see what the appeal is for a writer to spend their days in the dark back table of a cafe into the unsensible hours of morning. To them, I can say only this. Dark cafe corners are quiet for a reason; so many secrets are kept back there, so many secrets only a writer can see.