“So, I hear you’re a writer.”

Those of you who write have an idea of what comes next.  You know the pensive pause, the cocky tilt of the speaker’s head.  And you’ve learned how to bite your tongue at the inevitable words that follow:  “I’ve always thought about writing a book.  Got a few ideas.  Maybe I will.  How hard can it be?”

Now, once you’ve gotten over the urge to spew pea soup Exorcist-style, you’ve probably done the decent thing–smiled, nodded, and murmured something encouraging.  Some lie the Angel of Death will hold against you on Judgement Day.

Because you KNOW that isn’t what you really want to say.  You want to yank their bottom lip down to their knees and snarl, “Look, you patronizing sonofabitch–I WORK at what I do.  I plan, and worry, and bleed ink.  I sacrifice my time, my energy, my sleep–and yeah, sometimes even the needs of my family to do this thing, because it won’t let me live in peace without it.  Got that?”

And then, of course, there are the others.  The ones who look ever-so slightly down their noses and smile, saying, “Ah, you write romances.  How nice.  That must be fun.”

You smile at them too, and agree, of course, that it is fun.  Because it is.  But that’s not REALLY what you want to say.  You want to say, “It’s also a demanding, exacting, very competitive field if you want to excel at it, you condescending cow.”

But being professional authors, we’re above that sort of thing, right?

And finally, there are the really special ones.  The ones who walk up to you with a leering smile, the ones who make you forget your ‘professionalism’ and act on what you’re thinking…

The ones who wiggle their eyebrows and whisper, “I hear you write dirty stories.  Why don’t you let me show you a few tricks?”

Sigh…

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