Wanna confuse the hell out of
someone? I mean, personally, unless I've totally f**ked up someone's
mind during the course of a day, I feel that I've
wasted that day. Anyway, assuming that your answer is "yes" (or why would you be reading something called "David'Z
RantZ?"), here's how I do it:
I
tell anyone who asks what I do for a living that I'm a writer. (And
I've been saying that ever since I finally got the nerve to kiss my
crappy day job good-bye for good.)
No, really. It's that simple. Tell them that you're a writer -- well, if you
are one -- and it'll mess 'em up for sure.
Of course, I don't know
why
this confusion exists, but it does. And I started noticing it with my
very first paid writing gig, which was editing a restaurant menu to
include cute little jokes among the descriptions of the food that they
offered. (This was a Victorian-themed restaurant which wanted to appear
fun rather than austere, hence their name, "Tom Foolery's.") Maybe not
the kind of thing that would have Spielberg banging down my door, but
somebody was giving me money to write!
During
that early period in my on-again/off-again writing career, I did a lot
of freelance work, mostly for print shops, doing everything from
proofreading to what I call "low-grade advertising." (To my date, as we
dined out: "See this card on the table, inviting you to 'join us for
happy hour?' I
wrote that!" And boy, was
she
impressed. Or not.) And initially, I described myself as a "freelance
copywriter," which was evidently far too many syllables for the average
person to comprehend. Hence the following exchange, which I endured a
handful of times:
Him (or Her): "Oh, you're a copyrighter [sic]? Good, I can use you! I have some really good ideas I need to have copyrighted."
Me:
"I think you mean patented, not copyrighted... But anyway, that's not
what I do. I don't copyright; they have a whole office in Washington for
that kind of thing if you want to go through channels. I write copy."
"Huh?" or "Huh? Copies of what?"
Yeah,
I got the "Huh?" accompanied by a blank stare. So I figured it
would be a lot easier for everyone concerned if I simply said "writer."
Wrong.
Early
in my freelance career, my writing partner introduced me to a young
lady who ran a printshop in her basement. (This was shortly before the
computer era had really gotten going, so anyone running a business like
that was automatically deemed quite industrious.) When she'd discovered
he had a friend who was a writer, she enthusiastically decided she had
to meet me. I assumed she had plans to put me to work doing the
so-called low-grade advertising jobs I was used to, but no. She thought
"writer" meant that I could do things like calligraphy. Taking the word
"writing" a bit too literally, I thought...
Okay. In typical "David'Z RantZ" fashion, all of the above was just an introduction. Here's the real story I want to tell:
A
few years later -- well after I'd had a few articles and what I call
"half a handful" of comic book scripts published -- I received a call
from the very same print shop that had given me my first writing
assignment. According to the owner of the shop, the former manager of
Tom Foolery's was now embarking upon a new venture, a franchise called
Croissant du Jour*,
and was looking for a writer. (A while back I'd polished up the
business plan that Tom Foolery's manager, Michael K___, sent to the
bank which he hoped would finance this chain. Apparently, his figures
and my written organization of same had worked.)
(*By the way, there seem to be at least two different businesses currently operating under the Croissant du Jour
name.)
I called Mr. K___, and was a bit disoriented by what he said he wanted. He wanted graffiti painted on the walls of
Croissant du Jour's
restrooms. Nothing obscene or even suggestive, but rather, little
expressions that somehow reflected the overall dining experience.
In the restrooms.
Anyway, he further unnerved me by mentioning twice during the phone call that he also wanted
Croissant du Jour's
logo painted on an awning in front of the building. I told him both
times that I wasn't a painter, or an artist, so logos were not something
I did, but it was almost as if he wasn't hearing anything he didn't
want to hear.
The site of the new restaurant was about
an hour away from my home, which meant I had to deduct a small chunk out
of my anticipated profits for gas money. I drove out there with a long
list of suggestions for this "tasteful graffiti." He glanced at the
list, and then looked at me as if something was missing. Not "Missing"
on the list. "Missing" on me.
"Where are your paints?" he asked, all too matter-of-factly.
"My what?"
"Your paints," he repeated, with a tone of voice that implied that he'd actually wanted to say, "Your paints,
stupid." He continued. "Your supplies. How are you going to paint these walls without them?"
I couldn't believe I'd driven an hour for this conversation. "I'm not a painter. I'm not an artist. I'm a
writer."
He looked at me as if I'd just told him I was a photographer who didn't own or use any kind of camera.
I
got a sinking feeling when I realized that here was another person who
was taking the word "writing" too literally. I thought he'd hired me on
the strength of my work on his original bank proposal. Obviously not.
He wasn't very interested in my written list of suggestions (and I
knew he wouldn't like the
new suggestion which I was aching to tell him!), so I realized that the only way I was going to get paid for this gig
at all was if I myself painted my cute little sayings on Mr. K___'s bathroom walls.
One of his employees gave me directions to a local art supply store so I could buy paints, brushes, etc. Yeah, that's right,
more money out of my pocket, and thus, my profits.
It
was a long walk. I went there, wondering if I could charge him my
hourly rate from the very instant I arrived at his restaurant (which
would naturally include this walk). I had several
other thoughts on my way to and from the art supply store, but... nothing printable.
Using
a combination of brushed-on sayings and a couple of witticisms which
were sprayed on with a can of spray-paint, I dutifully defaced his
walls.
When I was done, he invited his employees to view my work. "What do you think?" he asked them.
"It
looks like the bathroom's been vandalized," said the one person who
wasn't afraid to admit that he agreed with what I myself was thinking.
Mr.
K___ gave the boy a look that implied "I meant to do that!" or, in his
case, "I meant to have that done!" I couldn't believe he really
liked my handiwork. I don't think he did; I think he just wanted to save face.
I decided to charge him for every minute I'd spent there since my arrival, including my walk to and from the store. What I
should have done was charge him for my travel time to and from home as well,
plus the cost of my gasoline
and
the cost of the freakin' paints and brushes. But I was younger then,
and certainly not as arrogant as... well not as arrogant as he struck me
as being.
As he wrote my check, I asked him to make
sure he included my middle initial, and I then began to spell my last
name for him. (My last name is almost
never
misspelled, but I always tell people how to spell it anyway. Just to be
safe.) As I was spelling it aloud, he waved his hand dismissively as if
to say "I
know how to spell it!"
As
I walked to my car, carrying the paints and brushes which, obviously, I
would never use again, I looked at the check he'd written.
My
middle initial was missing, and my last name was misspelled. But at
least he wrote the amount correctly, which, I suppose, is what
really matters.
Thanks for your time.
P.S. -- I wrote a post on April 3 2008, entitled "Just In Case," stating that I often think of people for no apparent reason, after
not having thought of them for ages... And suddenly, I run into them
somewhere, or learn that they've recently died, etc.
Just for the hell of it, I decided to do a Google search for "Michael K___."
Mr. K___, whom I'd met only once, back in the late 1980s, and rarely thought of until I began mentally drafting this David'Z RantZ post,
passed away on December 21st of 2007. Kinda close to when I originally wrote this post, I think.
Maybe I
do have The Power.
Thanks for your time.
