I’ve been struggling with what to call myself for a long time. My brother has no problems with this. Neither does the bloke I cut off in the car down the main street today. But I am struggling.
You see, I worked in marketing for a few years. A few looong years. So I always called myself a marketer. Which is an incredibly wanky term. It means nothing. And it looks like ‘mousketeer’ which would be an infinitely cooler thing to call yourself. But I’m not a mouseketeer or a marketer anymore. Nor do I call myself a journalist. Because I’m not that either. Sure, I’ll write the odd article here and there, but really. I’m not sticking a microphone in pollies faces or reading the ramblings from an auto cue or getting a byline in the local paper for my article about how dogs shouldn’t eat chocolate at easter time. So I’m not a journalist.
So what do I do? I blog. But rarely – so I can’t be called a blogger. And I write. And write and write. Every day. Novels, articles, screenplays. Anything. But until someone pays me motza bucks to do this – I hesitate to call myself a writer.
But you know what? That’s what I do. Every day. I write. Anything. Everything. Sometimes I get paid and sometimes I don’t. But I keep on writing. Now if I were a garbo and I collected the garbage everyday and the damn council didn’t pay me – would I still be a garbo? Ah, no. I would not. I would be…an idiot.
Yet I don’t always get paid for what I write and yet I keep doing it. And doing it. And doing it. And besides having sex, there’s nothing else I’d do for free. (Now don’t get excited I’m not passing it out…I’m just trying to make a point. Which I’m getting to.)
You know what that makes me? A bloody writer. So I have changed my twitter handle (I know you noticed) to Writer. Cause that’s what I do.
And if you write, that’s what you are too. So don’t be afraid to call yourself what you really are. Although personally – I prefer the gizoogle.net version
I ‘ain’t talkin bout chicken n gravy biatch Writer of shit
So that’s me.