I was told the other day that I “look like a writer.” I’m supposed to wear glasses; I don’t. I normally dress in black blazers, with dark colors; or vibrant, loud purples and soft lavenders. I like deep blue shirts with black ties (anything actually looks good with a black tie: free tip for you) or forest green with tan ties. Everything must flow and look sharp. My slacks are “modern fitting” (meaning they are tight as hell). Shirts are tucked in, hanging out, matched with jackets or simply worn open at the collar, showcasing my skull necklace - which I always have on. I wear a thumb ring; sometimes, two other rings on my right hand (ring and index finger), or a blue tiger-eye stone: ring finger only. I dress professionally at work, smart when going out, casual at home. So, with all this being said, why would I be told I “look like a writer?”
First off, how the hell does a writer look, anyways? Do we walk about with pencils behind our ears and dictionaries under our arms? Do we use words like extemporaneous and interpolate when ordering lattes at Starbucks? Do we correct others’ speech, either mentally or verbally? I don’t know. Or maybe it has nothing to do with appearance; perhaps it has everything to do with action. Are we writers because we run through the woods to get a better understanding for what the branches feel like when smacking us in the face? Or because we eat and drink horrible things to comprehend just how disgusting they are, then write about it to you? Again, I don’t know.
This has been puzzling me for a while. Now understand, I am a gothic writer. If you don’t know what Gothic literature is, hold tight: I’ll write a blog soon about it. But for starters, think Edgar A. Poe. Ok, Gothic. Right. With that out of the way, I am a Gothic writer, hence the pics in the cemetery. You hate cemeteries; I love them. You want a pet dog: I want a raven. Dark, stormy nights scare you: I thrive on them. Flowers adorn your desk: a skull sits on mine; You fear death: I…well, we’ll cover that one later.
I believe that you dress accordingly, and how you present yourself will be your appellation. Now, if you are a sports writer, don’t walk about with a helmet on all day. I don’t carry a shovel with me everywhere I go (read my stories). I don’t feel compelled to dress like anything other than what I am. So, if I dress like President Obama or the Sheik of Napoli, I’m still a writer. If I wear blue jeans and an Eagles tee, I’m still a writer. Bathing suit: same thing. Naked….never mind, you get the point.
The person was being nice. I told them I was writing, and they spoke the line. If I had told them I was in training to be a space shuttle pilot on the manned mission to Mars, they would have said I looked like an astronaut. This is how it rolls for me. All I can say is read my works, then you will know I am a writer.
I really don’t care what I look like (big lie; actually, I put a lot of emphasis on my appearance, but you get the idea). I don’t want to look like a writer: I want to be a writer! And I am one, published or not. Dress is only secondary, though the aesthetics may help.
Briefly, all is well. I am gearing up for another project and some editing of Bleodsian. I have a short story/novella combo I want to work on, the short story coming first; but not before I work on “Mommy’s Gone Crazy.” I think you all will enjoy it. Look for it soon.
I have almost forty ‘likes’ on my page. Please tell your friends, neighbors, and anyone you can trap in the elevator to look at and like my page. I’d appreciate it. Also, follow me on twitter and check out my works at bn.com. All links are posted on the blog page.
Thanks for reading.
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