When someone at a gathering asks
what I do, and I tell them I’m a writer,
The response is usually, “Oh, cool!”
It’s as though they think I got myself a computer, 
hung a shingle and along came success.
They seem to be mentally smacking themselves
on the forehead, and thinking, “Why didn’t
I think of becoming a writer and working
with celebrities?!”

Of course, all that was an accident.

Now let’s set the record straight about the “cool life” perception
people seem to have about the life of a writer. Here’s how it really
worked in my case: First I was a toddler without a pencil.
Like all kids, I was born an artist, floating in a sea of endless
possibility. I thought that was reality. It took forever to acquire the
paper, pencil and vocabulary I needed to make progress.
As time went on, I noticed some things were bugging me.
I couldnʼt put my finger on what they were…I knew cursive
was not my strong suit.

Later, I became a class clown, aka a “poor learner”, in first grade.
Two years later, mom got a note from my teacher that
launched years of non-encouragement.

“…Christine does nice work in reading and numbers. There is still
room for improvement in writing, but I feel that practice will
take care of that.”
--Excerpted from a report by my Miss Miller, third grade teacher

And I practiced. By the age of 8, I was writing, drawing
and painting like a banshee. That year, a posse of helpful
relatives began advising me about what to do with my life.
They really wanted to see me get a job at a bank,
meet and marry a charmingly wealthy man and
have a tribe of children. I kept a straight face and 
secretly made fun of them.

Adulthood was even harder. I had my beautiful daughter,
worked like a mule and became a very good copywriter.
I worked on creative writing after my daughter went to bed. 
I didn't sleep during the 70's.
During this ad agency phase in my carreer,
I won a copy award for a funny radio spot I’d written and produced.  
My colleague and ‘copy chief’, Craig, accepted my award and
took full credit. But when my spot was played to a huge audience,
they howled with laughter. It made me so happy, I felt rewarded enough.
I don’t need no stinking plaque, Craig.

Lots of ad agencies and one huge corporation later, I was making
enough moolah to raise my little girl. I found myself tolerating the
numbness of all-staff “calibration meetings”, team-building off-sites,
and boilerplate copy. Endless, unnecessary meetings delayed actual
work. I felt like I was wearing someone elseʼs clothes and living
someone elseʼs life. Nothing made sense. I missed myself and
felt homesick until I got back home to my sweet daughter. But
when the corporation conspired to have huge numbers of
employees think alike, a terrible chill came over me. I had never
calibrated with throngs of strangers before, and I couldnʼt imagine
starting then. I yearned to make my own contributions. I wanted
to work with people who wanted to use what I did well, to advance
their own messaging.

When I finally left, we lived uninsured. I ate popcorn and
fed my girl soup and vegetables. Now I had time to spy on life,
observe human behavior and write funny essays. One of those
made its own way to the Boston Phoenix newspaper without
being sold to them.

A guy I didnʼt know called me, asking to buy the option to
my Phoenix feature story, Home for the Holidays, and
the Phoenix agreed to it. I had never tried to sell it anywhere,
and even felt a bit sheepish, since I had played the story for laughs,
using my own loving family members as the characters. But I also knew
that the chances of it really being made as a movie were slim,
so I said yes to the “sell” part, and asked the caller
(screenwriter Rick Richter) what the heck an option was.

Before I knew it, Home for the Holidays was a feature film, a book of
essays and a cookbook. I explained and apologized to my family,
and celebrated by buying a new computer chair, a box of printer paper
and a ladder with my royalty checks. Those finally stopped coming.

A lightning storm scrambled the data that wouldʼve been 
the first draft of my second book. “Itʼs retrievable, but unreadable,”
the experts told me. The world looked all the more absurd to me then.
I spent some time under my bed, wishing I could become a heavy drinker,
but a half glass of wine triggered a volcanic migraine.

A legion of caring friends begged me to take a part-time job anywhere,
so they could stop worrying about my survival. I reflected back on my life…
remembering when my relatives encouraged me to work in a bank.
Maybe they were right. I looked back at my lucrative, health-insured
days, marveling that I was able to support my daughter and myself at
such a young age. Then I entertained the idea of becoming a dog walker.
The panic attacks began.

There was no option but to get back on my horse, and nobody elseʼs.
My horse knew its own way to more and more successes while
I remained lost in possibilities.

Thatʼs the cool life of a writer from my point of view.