I work part time as a shoe salesperson. This surprises me, and I am not quite sure why, especially in light of everything else I’ve done to keep myself fed and watered.
I first began to write stories and poetry at the age of seven when, thanks to my grade four teacher Mrs. Martin, I found myself armed with a decent sense of sentence structure and story arch. I wrote my first short story, a fanciful piece about time travel and poisonous fruit, and upon handing it in knew writing was what I had to do for the rest of my life. From that time forward, anything else I chose to do would mean less to me.
On the playground during recess, friends plucked careers out of our small collection of known occupations — nurse, fireman, secretary, doctor, scientist — and I would stand still with my lips pressed together. I thought of writing as a craft akin to knitting, only wetter and more secret. No kid was going to pipe up and say they wanted to be a knitter when they grew up. When directly confronted with the question one afternoon, in a fit of self-preservation I shoved the nearest kid down the hill and yelled, “King of the castle!”
This knee-jerk shame about writing — an activity I hid like masturbation — kept me away from practicing the thing I loved for many years. It was too intimate. When I wrote, it felt like I was touching everything all at once, rolling in mud, needlessly gorging myself. I felt impractical and messy and perverted. I grew up, though, and dove back into the practice 23 years after I first began when it became apparent that nothing else could fill the empty space in my chest. I’ve made very little money from writing since then, but it moulds me purposefully and well.
In order to remain fed, clothed, and sheltered, I have worked in coffee shops, bookstores, a hotel gift shop, a university, a cheap kiosk in the mall, and a sweltering berry patch. I’ve sold cell phones and circus tickets and teapots and cassette tapes before CDs were commonplace. I’ve sold watches for a cokehead with a penchant for ugly hookers. I’ve done data entry during a political election.
I almost took a job selling life insurance in a pyramid scheme under a guy who wore a brown polyester suit with stained armpits. I’ve transcribed documentary footage about horrific disasters, having to play over and over again the details of what fires and floods can do to human bodies. Now I sell shoes. I prefer this to almost anything else I’ve done.
In the midst of a discussion about protective shoe spray, a recent customer leaned in and said, “You’re not going to do this forever, are you?” Her question appalled me. She was intimating that my position was low, that there was something shameful about my work. She thought that surely my employment must be an act of desperation in our woeful economy.
I inhaled her wreak of tobacco and looked up at a face far less happy than mine, and, just like that, I woke up. I loved writing and I liked what I did to support it, and her veiled derision suddenly seemed anachronistic. The last whiff of my childhood shame about my creativity winked out of existence. I resisted the urge to spoon out her eyes with a shoehorn.
Instead, I smiled at her with my sweetest of customer service smiles, presented her shopping bag to her with a tidy snap, and said, “I am actually a writer who just happens to enjoy selling shoes.”
I told the truth and felt no shame in it. The customer got to keep her eyes. And it was win-win for the both of us.
Photo credit
“Typewriter – Front Right” – Copyright © Schmutzie, 2003 – 2010. All rights reserved.
“21 December, New Shoes” Sladey @ flickr. Creative Commons. Some rights reserved.
Feature picture “Black shoes” Clarity* @ flickr. Creative Commons. Some rights reserved.
I hope you don’t mind that I shared this post with my blog readers. I found it so inspiring that it seemed selfish to keep it to myself! 🙂
http://www.julieharrison.ca/living/sharing-stories/
Well done, Schmutzie! I ENVY your ability to work part time and write, and look forward to doing the same thing. When I quit my “corporate” job to work at an amazon.com warehouse for less money, so I could write, I was detoured (pregnancy, marriage that wasn’t so great…) Just wanted to share that much so I can say “I get it.”
I’m glad that however you felt about writing, you kept on doing it. You inspire me. It is interesting to me that as I’m moving toward more anonymity, you’re moving toward less – but there are reasons for both. Just keep going, the world needs you!
Someone with whom I correspond said she identifies with you. She said it was a question of self-confidence, of asking herself how she dared claim to be writer and a fear of being ridiculous. That’s why she often thinks of closing her blog, which relatives see as a “shameful exhibition.”
For my part, I have made my living writing all my life (and I’m older than you are), but I never felt this whole set of feelings about the notion of “being a writer.” I’m a writer. I could be a plumber. It pays the bills. Sometimes I write things I like, sometimes it’s so so. I blog to write more freely, to indulge myself writing about topics that no one would pay me to write about — or few care about.
Maybe I’m missing something.
Schmutzie is, of course, a very good writer. She’s a consummate blogger. And she has a vast Canadian prairie of emotions and thoughts to explore and share.
I vow to think of this line, “I am actually a writer who just happens to enjoy selling shoes,” on those days when I feel under paid, or the lack luster of my job eats away at my heart.
Mine should read, “I am actually a writer who just happens to enjoy being an administrative assistant.”
I feel better already.
How about “I’m just a writer who happens to enjoy being unemployed?”
No, doesn’t have the same ring….:)
I used to be an administrative assistant! It helps me to think of my creative work as my real work, and my job simply as my way to continue to afford sandwiches.
GLORIOUS.
You have all been so kind about my first piece here at Life As A Human. Thank you for making my first day awesome!
A perfect piece of writing that I want to share with everyone. (And I did … at least those who follow me on Twitter :-). )
Funny, when I was a kid, I told everyone I was going to be a writer, but it’s taken my 30 years to think of it as something more than a fun thing on the side of “real” career options. Which is dumb, I know. Reading this post makes me realize that hopping around through a bunch off jobs isn’t really that weird if you’re an artist, it’s probably pretty normal?
Reminds me of this….
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6tb-5ei1hDk
Exquisite. I so loved reading your writing, it made my day. Shoes sound lovely, especially after imagining watches and ugly hookers.
I once had a writing teacher who said he never told people on a plane that he was a writer. He usually said math teacher, that kept conversation to a minimum. I think for a lot of writers the battle isn’t about the writing. Writers write, they can’t do anything else. But unless you are working for the NY Times or are on the shelf at Barnes and Noble or your work is a movie somehow it doesn’t count in the modern world. Even among writers there is a competition and a push to devalue writing unless it has been validated by a team of editors.
There’s something to be said for what a great friend of mine calls “joe jobs.” They let you have a life. You can leave the customers and the work behind at the end of the day. Writers need that so our minds are free to play. Anyone who gets snotty about retail or service industries has a narrow view of the world anyway.
Always a good day when the customer gets to keep her eyes.
I’m a mum, who spends all her time writing. When people ask what I do, I think they’re expecting me to say I’m a mum. Instead, I say writer and get left with ‘well, what do you write?’ and that is where I struggle. Anything and everything isn’t really an answer.
The musician in me so resonates with what you have written here, which is my introduction to your fine work. Often, the song writer in me hears a tiny voice say .. “everything else is a waste of talent”. Finding the balance has never been an easy thing.
Thank you so much for your insight and honesty. Truly, you are gifted!
Cheers,
Gil
I am so so glad I read this today. A beautifully crafted reminder. Thank you.
Absolutely just so damned great. You made me smile too.
Jesus God, I just discovered that your quote clicks open to an entire entry. Crikees … and here I was, wondering why your entries have been so damn short lately. D’uh.
Anyhoo, the world needs good salespeople who enjoy their work. What’s not prestigious enough about being a shoe salesperson? Pfft. Just because you don’t make the big bucks …. the poorest reason to choose your work, IMO.
I’m so glad I saw the link for this on Twitter today. What a gift it’s been to get to know you and your writing this year, Schmutzie.
Oh my goodness! This was the most exquisite expression of what it feels like to want to claim the word “writer.” I thoroughly enjoyed this. Thank-you.
I’m glad you’re happy and that your job leaves you with the time and mental energy to dedicate yourself to writing. Because you are damn good at it.