What Do You Do?
Occupation and Identity
Those of you who know me through this newsletter probably imagine me as an urbane and articulate fellow, a charming conversationalist with a pocketful of quips. Perhaps you think of me as a silver-tongued master of small talk who enlivens every gathering with his witticisms and repartees. Nothing, it pains me to admit, could be farther from the truth.
In social settings, I can usually be found lurking at the fringes, sipping a glass of clear liquid I can claim to be gin and avoiding eye contact with other human beings. This strategy is not fool-proof and there are occasions when people walk up to me and try to strike up a conversation.
‘Hey! Why are you standing in this corner? Have you been punished? Haha!’
‘No no… Not punished, haha, good one, haha…’
‘Wow, your palms are really sweaty.’
‘…And my knees weak, arms are heavy...’
‘What?’
‘Nothing, nothing.’
‘How’s it going? What’s up?’
‘Oh, ah, nothing much... You know... The usual... I was just thinking about hara-kiri and seppuku, and wondering if there is any difference between the two.’
‘Sepu-what? What is that?’
‘Seppuku was a ritual practised by samurais in medieval Japan. Quite fascinating, really. The samurai would cut his stomach open with a katana. And an aide would then slice his throat. So, a disembowelment followed by a decapitation. Wait, let me show you a video…’
Over the years, I have learnt that talking about ceremonial suicide is not an appropriate response to ‘What’s up?’. But there continues to be one question, commonly posed in polite conversation, that has me in knots every time. A question we are asked - and, indeed, ask others - the moment we meet someone for the first time.
‘What do you do?’
For most of my adult life, I had a ready answer to this question, though the exchange would invariably grow tiresome.
‘So, what do you do?’
‘I am a lawyer. I work in a law fir..’
‘Oh! A lawyer! That’s great, if I kill someone then you can save me, bro! Hahaha!’
‘I am not a criminal lawyer. I work in a law firm on corporate ma…’
‘First thing I will call you, bro. Right after the murder. Hahaha!’
‘I don’t think you underst…’
‘Hey, Sunny, this guy is a lawyer! We’re sorted. He will save us if we commit murder. You’ll save us na?’
‘I cannot..’
‘I have many people I want to kill. Hahaha! Expect my call soon, okay? ’
‘Keep this up and you’ll have to call your doctor right now.’
“What? You said something, bro? Didn’t catch it.”
‘No, no, nothing.’
Then, two years ago, I left legal practice and moved to a part-time, administrative role. The solid familiarity of the well-worn answer I had supplied to everyone for more than a decade, was no longer available for use. I now had to fashion a new response, a cogent way of explaining what is it, exactly, that I do.
‘You should say you are a writer’, my wife tells me, with a conviction I admire but cannot emulate.
‘That would be presumptuous’, I respond. ‘I cannot claim that title. One needs to earn it.’
‘You’re being ridiculous. People ask what you do as a way of getting to know you. You should tell them about yourself and how you left your old job to focus on your writing. Be honest.’
‘Tell them the truth? I can do that. So, things like….I sleep, I eat, I read. I take naps in the afternoon. I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about writing and far too little of it, actually writing. I read books on the craft and ignore everything they say about the perils of fetishizing publication. I agonize over submissions and mope over rejections. I obsess over likes, shares, views, and other facile metrics because my sense of self is wrapped up in the appreciation (or lack of it) my writing receives. On the assigned days, I go to work. I see people hunched over their laptops or pacing the corridors, their Air Pods tucked into their ears and their faces scrunched up in concentration, and I feel a pang of regret. They are always busy with real work. I used to be like them. It was exhausting, sure, and I do not miss the stress. But I miss feeling relevant. I miss the feeling of my work being valued, being paid for, and being useful to others. Now, nothing I do seems to matter. I worry that my writing is frivolous and inconsequential. Perhaps that is why I struggle to think of it as a serious occupation. On some days, I question my decision to give up a career to indulge a whimsical fancy. On others, I know I made the right choice. I puzzle over why I had to be miserable to feel productive, but feel unproductive when I’m happy. I wonder if I will ever write a book or anything of note, if I will ever be able to call myself a writer without being embarrassed. I also think a lot about dying and how I would like to have the answers to all of these questions before I die.’
‘…..’
‘…..’
‘…..’
‘Maybe I should just stand in a corner and avoid talking to anyone.’
‘Yes, maybe you should.’
" I worry that my writing is frivolous and inconsequential."
You know it's funny, but it's all these so-called "real" jobs are the truly frivolous and inconsequential roles in life.
The more pointless and ridiculous the task, the more the reward. If your spend you time unnecessarily complicating the lives of others or forcibly inserting technology into otherwise perfectly-well functioning relationships, or helping to push the Earth over its latest tipping point, then your most likely sitting pretty.
And the way people identify with these "frivolous and inconsequential" jobs, weaving themselves into the bizarre micro-culture and mentality of the workplace, happily doing the required feather dances to prove their importance or non-threatening acquiescence. I find the whole thing terrifying and sad. Especially since we're left with almost no other choice but to throw our lives into the black hole of pointless tasks. Me included.
So I say stand tall Rohan, even though the marketplace punishes anyone who wants to tackle the human condition and report on life itself through writing, there is nothing more honourable and important.
I also cringe at saying "I'm a writer", not because the first question is always "what have you had published?" but because most of my income is also gained through frivolous and inconsequential activity, which makes me feel like a fraud claiming writer-ship. But I am a writer. An observer. A re-teller, describing my own narrow pathways of experience from the great pattern of events.
And so are you. I've really enjoyed reading your writing so keep it up. I'm no mathematician, but one less lawyer and one more writer sounds like an excellent formula to me ;)
Resonated so well with this. Please keep writing.