A couple weeks ago I was sitting in a circle with a small group of business men in a second-story room of a downtown church, which, come to think of it, could have easily been confused with any number of those anonymous addiction groups. Instead, these fine gentlemen had gathered to discuss my e-book, At Work as it is in Heaven. They wanted to learn a little background about how I, a business executive, had come to write it, and all.
“Well,” I began, with a great deal of conviction and worldly j’ ne se qua flair, “Although I pursued a career in management, there was always this incessant need for creative expression, and soon enough it just got the best of me. You see, I am a writer, and – ”
At this point I paused for a moment, surprised, as if I had just confessed out loud something I hardly dared admit to myself. I stared blankly out the window, gazing at the rooftops descending beneath, and then continued quite slowly and deliberately with the following statement: “- and writers are a strange bunch.”
How else to explain the awkward compulsion to document in great detail one’s innermost thoughts and feelings, only to publish for all to see as if there was some profound wisdom there to be gained for the world’s benefit? I figured it best to provide an explanation before they beat me to the punch, since they were surely thinking it.
Up until this point, I had trouble actually considering myself as a writer. It’s one thing to say, “Oh, yes, I’ve authored a book,” or to mention that I wrote an article somewhere, but to call myself a writer, well, it just sounds pretentious. Like, next thing you know I’ll be wearing a beret and smoking a pipe. I am not well-known for writing, nor am I all that talented or original, and it certainly does not provide a full time living. It’s a hobby, that’s all; just a little past-time.
Plus, well, I’ve gotten to see some of these people, these writers, up close, and they are by all appearances a desperate and insecure lot, clawing for attention at every turn to prop up an otherwise fragile self-esteem. Hey, you! Look at my blog! Look at my e-book! Be enriched from my transparency and spiritual wisdom! Please like me! Anyways, it scared me how much I fit right in.
I may feel somewhat self-conscious, but, hey, there are plenty of other people involved in far stranger activities. I know many who wake up in a hut in the wilderness at four in the morning to sit in a tree stand all day with a gun or bow, waiting for a buck to appear. Or how about that colleague with a great passion for collecting historical real estate deeds? Weird. Others participate in sadistic ironman marathons. We all have our sick methods of coping.
And whose business is it anyway if I want to think of myself as a writer, among other things? I am not defined by just one calling. I suppose “writer” is one of many identities I’ve accumulated or shed over the years, adapting like a new species to its shifting environment.
I’m adapting to the second half of life, you might say.
But, really, I’m over it. I will bravely face the harsh truth.
Hello. My name is J. B. Wood, and –
