Member-only story
Don’t Ask Me What I Do — I Don’t Know
I recently returned to France from the UK after visiting friends and family for two weeks. I hadn’t seen some folk for a long time, so naturally they asked me what I was doing.
I hate this question.
It’s not that I don’t like talking about my work — I do. It’s just that there is so much more in my life.
I write, I paint, I write songs, I keep a log of wild flowers, I have a keen interest in Guy de Maupassant and Balzac, and enjoy contemporary French jazz.
But no one ever asks about these things, because they’re arty. Or worse still, botanical.
If I was into gardening, that would be OK. But not botany, oh no. That’s creeping into beekeeping territory: strange men and women in big overalls and notebooks.
If folk do ask about my writing — which they sometimes do — I always get the same response.
‘So, this writing, it’s like a hobby?’
NO! IT’S NOT A HOBBY!
Golf is a hobby.
Writing a novel to make it not like any other novel is not a hobby, it’s a head fuck. But I do it anyway, because I’m nuts.
Yes, I’m nuts. Why don’t I just do one thing and be done!
