When I was asked to edit a book and I said they needed an editor not a writer.
‘And you call yourself a writer.’
When I was asked to read some ‘arty’, impromptu poetry at a wedding, and I said I was an author not a poet.
‘I thought you were a writer.’
When I explained to someone that for sales copy, they needed a copywriter, not a content writer.
‘If you didn’t want to write it, all you had to do was say no.’
When I was asked to review a play that someone’s friend’s sister’s cousin grandfather niece 50 years removed had written, and I said I was an author, not a playwright, so probably wouldn’t do a good job.
‘It’s all the same thing though, isn’t it?’
After watching a mesmerising spoken word performance, someone turned to me and said: ‘Why can’t you write and do something like that?’
My response: ‘Because I’m an author not a spoken word artist, mofo.’
From a blast from the past.
‘Did you base that male character on me?’
Thinking to myself: Not even if your last name was Obama.
When I tell people I’m a writer.
‘I’ve got an idea for a book; all you have to do is write it. We’ll split it 60-40. Should be easy enough. Writing’s not that hard.’
Me: ‘Never going to happen.’
The person: Nervous twitter-laughter, that dies an unnatural death by my withering gaze, when they realise that:
- I have no interest in their idea (it’s usually rubbish anyway)
- That they’re not the first to make such a suggestion to me
- I really have no interest or patience for this stupid conversation. I want to stomp my feet and have a well-earned fit, just like a child.
I’ll read your stuff when I’ve got the time.
Me: I wasn’t asking you to. I don’t even expect you to.
PS: You can stop avoiding me now.
