The man sitting across from me on the train this morning was obviously a writer. He pulled out his notebook and scribbled in fits and starts, breaking only to stare intently at the people squeezed in around us. After an hour of watching him watching others, and surreptitiously admiring his collection of observations and sketchy drawings, I asked him, “what are you writing this morning?”
You know what he said? Eyes wide in terror or arrogance, I couldn’t tell, he said, “Oh, I’m just a PA [personal assistant] and… uh… forgot my laptop and so I’m writing lists.” Bollocks!
What inspired him to lie? The jig was up but he clung to his stealth.
He wasn’t the shy sort, so perhaps he wanted to avoid liability because his scathing observations will appear in a blog post or book. Maybe he was cooking something to rival the women who eat on tubes fiasco? Ha!
His behavior begs the question, would you admit to being a writer? Is it something you positively identify with or try to bury beneath your other assets?
Whatever his reasons, he was no writing ninja. And I’m a bastard for reading his work. 😉