April 29, 2012: Scribe Screed

The desire to write grows with writing.     

—Desiderius Erasmus

Like hell it does.

—Robrt Pela

          I was taking down the Peter Bugg show at Willo North Gallery over the weekend when someone said a phrase I’ve heard approximately seven million times in the last 30 years.

          “You’re so lucky you get paid to do something you love.”

          This very nice person was referring to what I like to call, with a completely straight face, “my career as a writer.”

          I wish I had some insight into why people assume that I love to write. I’m missing something here. I never assume that the guy who hands me my keys at the car wash is enjoying himself. It didn’t occur to me that the woman who painted our house wouldn’t rather have been doing pretty much anything else.

          But somehow, there’s this assumption that writing is my passion, and my great fortune is getting to do it every day, for pay. While it’s true that I have enjoyed not having to work in an office, and that it’s nice to be able to do a day’s work without ever once putting on my pants, no one ever mentions that.

          “How great that you’ve figured out a way to use your one and only skill to earn a paycheck,” someone might say. Just once.

          Or, “Well, hurray for you—you’ve paid your share of the electric bill this month with commas and adjectives and a bag full of wind.”

          Nope. Never happens.

Thing I Hate Today: The over-used “awesome.”