I’m still writing… so much for a career shift. LOL.
“You should be lucky you’re doing something you like,” a friend told me last night. I think I belong to that minority of people who do actually make a living out of something they like doing, but when you’re pushing 25, the quarter-life crisis leads you to believe that you can be doing something else. More than that, I think I belong to that minority of people who have finally found their calling.
The beginning of the rest of my life doesn’t have to end up with me at my mid-twenties, a date with destiny, and copy. Or fiction, or prose, whatever. There are lots of things I could still explore simply because I can. I don’t want to go to my 20th high school reunion and have this going on:
High school friend: Hi Marck! What are you up to? I’m running my own company, I have three kids, and I’m going to a cruise to Moldova.
Me: Hey! Errr… I’m writing, I’m on my second book, and I’m shortlisted for the Booker Prize this year. I don’t have a company, I don’t have kids, and I’ve just eaten all my manuscripts ‘coz I’m poor.
High school friend: That’s fantastic! What else are you up to?
Me: Fuck you, a pox upon your company, AIDS be upon your kids, and I hope you get raped at Moldova, bitch.
High school friend: Hey, that’s not very nice…
Me: I’LL SEE YOUR ASS IN HELL!
All apologies to the good people of Moldova.
Usually, conversations don’t go as far as Booker Prizes (which I’ll never get in this lifetime). Here’s one inane conversation I had with a college friend a couple of days ago.
College friend: Hi Marck!
College friend: What call center are you working for?
Me: Err… I don’t work for a call center.
College friend: Oh, I’m a trainor at a call center now. What about you?
Me: I’m a copywriter. I just moved companies.
College friend: That’s great! We all knew you were going to be a writer.
What I like about call center folks is that they give themselves a lot of leeway to figure out the course of their lives before moving out of the outsourcing industry. Once you figure out the rest of your life in a couple of years, you deny yourself other possibilities in employment. Huff.
Like, say, professional wrestling. Yes, if I weren’t writing, I would have made it my lifelong dream to powerbomb Hulk Hogan through a burning table and gave him a 630 senton off the top of a 15-foot-high ladder while I’m wrapped in barbed wire. Then I would have blinded John Cena with green mist and laid out Randy Orton with a piledriver on a pile of thumbtacks.
Then I’ll end up writing the memoirs of my wrestling career.
Blaargh. There’s at least one high point in all of this.