Well, obviously the guy is a few cents short of a euro. Clearly he is scratching his arse when it’s his head that’s itching. Blatantly the bloke is a boat bereft of a bosun. Transparently a train without a track. And so on.
The thing is, if you are an aspiring artist, actor, writer or musician, you will understand. You will grasp the fact that, if you are committed to your chosen career at all, you need to be able to choose your hours and have them flexible enough so that they can be cancelled virtually on a whim. You will know that, just as you need to make money in order to survive, you need enough time in which to pursue your art – a life which, unfortunately enough, does not immediately provide a livelihood. You will see that, essentially, there is little or no choice; to follow your dream as far as you can into the future, you must sacrifice your security in the present. That is life.
I may be alone in this, but it seems to be damned difficult to explain this to those who are not in the same situation or of the same mind. Whenever anyone in the ‘stable’ job asked me what I was going to do upon leaving, “I’m gonna temporarily go back to my old job while I look for something more permanent, there’s plenty out there”, I would repLIE. “Yeah I’ve been looking around, and I’ve found a few things, just trying to see which suits me best”. Only to a student, interning for a while as she is the daughter of one of the office accountants, did I even mention my desire to write more, to be more active politically. Possibly I felt she would be more understanding, I don’t know.
My wish, in putting this up, is to see if there are others who have had the same experience or feel the same way. Namely, the embarrassment, shame or fear that arises when asked, “What are you gonna do next?” or “What is your plan?” or “Where do you see yourself in five/ten/twenty years?” That instinct to lie, obfuscate or simply bullshit when somebody enquires as to your career opportunities or work prospects. That fucking sinking feeling in your stomach when somebody turns to you and says, “So what do you do?”
Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’ve gotta grow some balls and say, “I’m a writer dammit. It’s neither my responsibility nor my desire to justify my existence or output to you. This is what I do. Judge me, admire me, ignore me – I don’t give a fuck. I chose my path for reasons other than reward and status. I will not waste my time trying to please you”. Maybe I should start refusing to answer the question at all.
I am Seb. I am a Red. What more do people need to know?
Let me know what you think.
Solidarity, brothers & sisters… Ⓐ