Friday, October 31, 2008

god, for a man who solicits insurance

I am not a writer. I don't get paid to do it, I've never been published, and quite frankly, I don't spend much time writing, which, after all, is most typically employed as a verb. Therefore, I don't go about town proclaiming to anyone who'll listen, in a self congratulatory tone, that "I'm a writer." Because I am not. I hope maybe someday I will be, but I hope that will require more from me than drinking lattes in wifi cafes and wearing a scarf.

Half the time, these posers can't manage to form a coherent sentence with two hands and a flashlight, which is fine, really... who am I to judge? But if and when they insist on leading off a conversation with this cockamamie crap about their "work," I am filled with rage. Where is that screenplay they say they've been paid 100,000 dollars to pen? Or, more aptly, where's the check?

In this Internet age of self-branding and omphaloskepticism, it is so easy to pretend you matter. A few minutes logged into facebook and you can thrust whatever version of your self you wish onto hundreds of people you've never met. You can be anyone you want. You can make a liar's first impression. Online you can claim credit for the books you never read and the friends you never made, but you can't fool me.

If one more person I know to be a fool says in my presence, "I'm a writer," with that cheeky little nod that goes along with such salacious assertions, I swear I'll deck 'em.