I’m listening to Styx on Pandora right now. Don’t ask me why, but it seems fitting; puts me in the right mindset to explain what the hell I mean when I refer to myself as an amateur professional. I’ll do my best, but no guarantees you won’t end up scratching your head even more than you were before.
Hey, at least it isn’t Journey.
So you came back. Apparently the threat of divulging information about myself wasn’t enough to make you run for the hills – or maybe that $20 bribe actually worked. Don’t worry, the check’s in the mail.
Anyway: yes, amateur professional. It’s been a weird, circuitous route to where I am now, sitting in this little stone cottage in the wilds of Pennsyltucky with seven cats and a house filled with semi-automatic high-caliber weapons next door (you know, just in case of a zombie apocalypse), making my living as an author and copywriter.
Somehow I’ve managed to unfuck my life and pick up a profession in the process. Not only that but it’s actually in the same field that I studied in school. I’m using the (type)written word to make money (Note: If you work for the IRS or any of my creditors, I’ve moved to Canada. Canada doesn’t extradite to the US for tax evasion, right?).
But – and this is the but that keeps me up at night – I’m a professional. I have a profession. The thing is, I don’t feel professional at all. I feel like I’ve been stumbling and flailing through life like a drunk trying to put on a sweater in a windstorm.
I’m constantly amazed that people are paying me to do this shit. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop – I’m going to wake up one morning and all my copywriting gigs have dried up and that my publisher has dumped me and one of the cats took a piss on my shoes, while another shat in my hat.
I think that was a George Carlin skit, wasn’t it? We got books out the ass, like this one: The Cat Shat in the Hat. It’s like Doctor Seuss After Dark.
It’s a nice hat, by the way, even if it’s filthy. I definitely feel like an amateur wearing it though.