People like to ask how my writing is going. It’s polite and supportive, a nod to my chosen profession rather than an embrace of the totally valid other opinion (that I am a dilettante with no chosen profession who can’t get it together).
Still, it’s a hard question for me to answer. I think it’s tough in any job — think about what you did at work this morning; how much of it was “ate half a stale bagel, checked email obsessively, accidentally threw out an important paper,” and how much of it was stuff that could be made into an interesting anecdote or one-line response? That percentage goes down even more for me; I work alone, in my house, so my stories are at a minimum. I only have quirky co-workers when I forget and start talking to myself out loud.
The other reason this gets asked is that this struggle with my writing is one of the few things most people know about me, because I could not shut up about my own self-loathing and insecurity in re: this choice of work for about a year after I started. And no one wants to ask “So, still loathing yourself?” So they ask about the writing instead.
But, as I say, I never know how to respond. “It’s going well” seems dismissively abrupt, but a longer answer is boring. Every now and then I can say something like “I interviewed Timmy from the original Lassie show,” (which I did; he was a lovely person), but mostly I don’t have those answers.
If I could choose, I’d much rather be asked what I’m reading. That begins a dialogue and a round of the “have you read…” game. For that question I always have an answer.
Yi cin reads, arsk me howe!!
