Had I known that telling people I’m an author came with the same barrage of predictable questions every single time, I might have had the foresight to arm myself with a recorded, automated response I could play every time someone asks…
And what do you do?
At this point I know I can look forward to at least one of the following questions;
- “An author? Really?” They might ask as they look at me with suspicious disbelief. Because aren’t real authors serious, intellectual, poetry musing people with neat little haircuts like Donna Tartt and fancy British accents?
- “An author, how lovely?” They say, while looking at me in a patronizing manner, as if they’re imagining some whimsical version of me sitting under a blossom tree at the bottom of an English country garden scribbling little notes in calligraphy on old bits of papyrus. “How sweet.“
- They might…
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