by Kelly Baugh
Lately I've been telling a lot of folks the details of my profession. As I said in my last blog, I'm moving. Banks, city utilities, title companies, they all seem to be very interested in the ways my family generates income. Here's a typical conversation:
Banker: What's your husband's profession?
Me: He's a software developer.
Banker: Good. And what is it that you do?
Me: I'm a writer.
Me: I'm a writer.
Banker: Wow, really? That sounds ...
It's at this point I wish I could jump into the banker's head and actually live the exotic, glamorous life I know he's picturing.--me, doing one of the following:
Discussing literary authors, in hip, writerly lingo, with fascinating creatives sporting black turtlenecks and silky hair at a beatnik-esque coffee shop. Later that night we'll all be doing readings for a packed-out audience.
Typing on my laptop on the deck of my yacht, harbored in a Mediterranean port, sipping wine. Later that night I'll be heading to shore to ride my Vespa to a party at someone's villa where I'll be signing copies of my best-selling novel.
Cozily holed up in a cottage in the British countryside/mountain top retreat/tropical island, typing my manuscript on a vintage typewriter. Every so often, in a fit of passion, I rip my page into shreds and throw it at my cat/wolf/parrot.
Oh that these were true. I want to crawl up inside of one of these fantasies and never leave (except for the wolf one).
I have to admit, however, the reality is great too, even if I am just sitting at my desk in my pajamas. Or playing my latest plot line in my head while zoning out during a boring meeting. Or getting to hang out with the other amazing writers at NCW.
It may not be the Mediterranean, but it's a pretty sweet life.