Dabbling in Cliches

The next time someone comes up to me to ask what I do, I won't say I'm an academic, let alone an aspiring one. They don't get it. All I basically do is read, write papers, and teach in a college they may have heard of if they are from my city. Besides, it's not as cool as being a graphic artist, an event consultant, a designer, a musician or even a computer engineer. The city by the sea dabbles in money, and the ability to live it out and live it up. It's a city of numbers.

Maybe the next time I will tell them that I am a writer. What would this sound like? Vague, perhaps vogue-ish. Struggling? But you cant be a serious one in a shirt like this. Oh wait, these ingenius chappal-floaters can betray the un-fashionly artsy-fartsy-ness of me. Haha. Really?

Ok, so what have you published? Uh... Nothing really, yet. So what do you write? I don't write much. I haven't written in quite some time... in fact, I haven't written seriously in years. But I'm still a writer.

And here I am in a haute cafe, sipping cheap bear, and spelling beer wrong. I'm a writer with very little imagination, zero inspiration and no skill of observation. But don't get me wrong, I am not a failed writer. nor a pseudo one. I'm writing this, aren't I?

I could write a story of love, that should be simple enough. But successful love (whatever that is) does not make for a good plot. Failed love, difficult love? I should be inspired, this city manufactures it by the dozen every single day. What more, it is sitting right across from me. This man can be my muse, my testament. But I'm too close to him, I know him too well. I can't write his story. I'd have to fictionalize him, give him a new name, give him motive, give him direction. But will I be able to face him after I pass judgement on him?

I would do better to write about how people meet in cafes. It could be Friends in maximum city. Or vague women in the capital. It could be a love story in any case. Like the guy sitting on the stool there, making eyes at me. I could smile at him and he could come over, and we would connect... and live happily ever after. Alright, alright. It's not about originality anymore, it's about intertextuality, dude. Besides, I'd talk over beer not coffee.

(I may be a little drunk by now.) Since my inventive tap is all but running dry, I may be in need of more powerful intoxicants. Calling all the pains of sleep! And... wait, my pen is slipping... I have to write, before I wake up to a headache, emptying the non-opiates to the drain. I don't want to fly back to answering questions about my academic existence. I still need to tell you what I do...

[2 Feb '11]