I am Writer, hear me roar

One of the best things that happened when I found out my novel (Strange Nervous Laughter) was going to be published was that people started giving me respect. Or, rather, respek.

Respect denotes having done something worthy, being an upstanding citizen and leading a measured, well-thought-out life.

Respek is more of a grudging admiration for having done something cool. Its effects are far-reaching.

Before, when people asked, “So what do you do?” and I said I was a writer and working on my first novel, they’d give me a little “Oh! Right,” and their eyes would take on a faraway, uninterested expression. I could almost hear them thinking, “Here we go… another wannabe.” But change the answer to, “I’m a writer, I’m getting my first novel published,” and all eyes are respectfully wide open. Even people who don’t read are impressed that you’ve written a book, and it makes a splendid opening to emails.

Now that the book is actually in stores, people I’ve never exchanged more than a passing greeting with are eager to launch into my life history, and I could swear I’m being looked at differently around the office (although that could be because one or two people have actually read some of the novel, and are wondering where I get my inspiration from, and why some parts are so strange).

I’m not complaining, not even a little bit, not at all. I’ve waited my whole life to be able to say things that people want to listen to.

I’ll be honest with you, I was a bit of a golden child at school. You know, those infuriating ones who do everything right? And then in my second year of college I decided I was going to drop out, and would you believe all the people who had taken such an inordinate interest in every detail of my life just dropped away? One by one. Even the pharmacist’s assistant stopped asking me for updates.

So that now, as I approach round two of public interest (which is on a slightly larger scale than being head girl of my high school, I admit) I approach it with a modicum of distrust. It is a little strange, is it not, that people look to writers for observations on life, when the act of writing involves sitting in a darkened room, alone, scribbling or typing feverishly, effectively cut off from life?

That said, I will now completely contradict myself.

Because the act of writing, on computer or notepad, in small room or large open-plan office, for a blog or a novel, allows one the rare opportunity to look within. And I think, from my moments in this reflective space, that a lot of what we find inside is, if not universal, then certainly unanimous with the clamouring voices around us every day. And if writing can do nothing else, at least it has the potential to cut through the clamour and say something distinct.

Something clear.

Something true.

Yes, it is true that people listen to me more now that I have a book in bookstores. But maybe that is deserved, not necessarily for anything I have to say, but for what the book — in its three-dimensional wonder — represents.

What’s that, you ask?

The fact that we still, in this hectic, internet-powered world, will take the time to stop, and read, and maybe sip a cup of tea.

So yes: I am Writer, hear me roar.

Respek.