Go Ahead. Make My Day.

When I tell people I'm a writer, there are three questions they usually ask, which I will list in order from least annoying to most:
1) What do you write?

I write words, y'all.

This question is generally not very annoying, except for the fact that I have to answer it all the time.  They're being polite, making small talk, and they probably won't push the question much further because, who are we kidding, they're more interested in telling me about themselves.  I tell them I write fiction and that's usually the end of it.  They nod and tell me that's nice and move on.  Where it really gets annoying is when they push the subject, which leads me to the second most annoying question:
2) What's your book about?

So, how do you like my book?

I know that, as a self-employed person who should be constantly trying to promote their work, I should take this question as an opportunity to try and sell the book.  But this doesn't really work for a few reasons.
First, I am not a good businesswoman.  I would venture to say that most writers are not naturally geared toward business; that's what makes them good artists.  It's a big struggle for the artistically inclined to see their work as a product to sell rather than as the result of blood, sweat, and tears.  That's why we have agents and managers and so on (if you can get them) -- to help us hopeless artists with the business-y side of writing.  While I'm trying to train myself to be more of a capitalist when it comes to my work, 90% of the time, I don't see the point.
Because, again, most people are not really interested in helping you further your career or giving your novel to that guy they know at Random House -- they're just trying to make conversation.  And since I am now working on other projects, I'm kind of over telling people all about my first novel.  I think this must be sort of what child actors or one-hit wonders go through every day; talking about that one thing they did a long time ago.  Yes, I am proud of my novel.  No, I don't want to tell you all about it.  And you probably don't want to hear it, either.
Note: If you do want to give my novel to that guy you know at Random House, I will tell you about my novel until you tape my mouth shut.
3) Are you published?

I'd like to tell you about my failure.

Any questions about my published status automatically make me want to hit the asker.  This is mostly a result of my frustration with not being published (except for that one short story years ago), but it's also just a rude question.  It's like asking a childless person why they don't have kids or asking a stranger how much money they make.  It's a sore subject, I'd venture to say, for most writers.
And the ones for whom it is not a sore subject probably are published, in which case, trust me, you won't have to ask them whether they've got a book out there that you can buy.  It'll be the first thing they say to you on the subject.
There's also the fact that this question suggests that the writer's worth is being judged based on whether or not they've been published.  Not only is this unfair, but it makes them feel like a failure when you bring up the subject.  You are reminding them that nobody has valued their work enough yet to print and distribute them, and you are bringing up all their insecurities about their career.
I know this stuff probably makes me look cranky, but I don't care.  I bring it up here because I'm not exactly sure why these questions irk me so much.

I'll be nicer if you'll be less annoying.

Perhaps it's because, to me, writing is very personal.  I don't like making casual small talk about it in the same way I don't talk to strangers about my sex life or my political views or my spiritual beliefs. It just feels too intimate, to close to who I am at the core.
Maybe this is unprofessional; I don't know.  Do stock brokers hate talking Wall Street with people who don't invest?  Do veterinarians want to talk mange with the checkout lady at the supermarket?  Maybe I don't like talking about writing with strangers because most strangers don't know the first thing about writing.  They don't read, they don't write, and they don't really want to.

When you finish reading, we'll talk about it...backwards.

I have no problem talking about writing with my friends (although I'm sure they wish I would stop sometimes).  And I have already talked about my love of talking books with strangers who know about books -- it's one of the highlights of my day when it happens.  Does this make me a snob?  Probably.  And I know I could avoid people asking me these questions by neglecting to mention my being a writer at all.  But wouldn't that be a betrayal of who I am?  A denial of my dreams?  And shouldn't I allow for the possibility that these well-meaning strangers do have something valid to offer on the subject?
Because, as annoying as the questions can be, they do open up a whole world of discussion that might very well make my day a good one.  If I can just bring myself to give people a chance.

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Daydream Believer

I did not win the lottery, I am sorry to say.  Normally, this would not have surprised me, since up until Tuesday I had never even purchased a lottery ticket before.  But when the jackpot hits $400 million and you have a dream the day before that you are filthy rich and you start watching a movie wherein the hero wins the lottery and a friend of yours randomly walks into your kitchen and hands you a four-leaf clover, you think, "What the hell? I could win this."

I may have gone a bit overboard.

You sit around waiting for the drawing, commiserating with our best friend as she smokes a cigarette and you prance around the back yard looking for dandelions to wish on (I do apologize to my landlords for that).  "What would we do if we won?" you ask each other. You wouldn't tell anyone, so you could keep your friendships and families intact, you'd keep your crappy job and even crappier apartment, but you'd pay off your student loans and donate money to charity and, every now and then, buy a couple bottles of Dom just so you can spray the foam all over the place.

This could be you.

It was definitely better before the drawing.  When my friend Chrissie and I were sitting around musing about all the freedom we would have, all the worries that would disappear, and the secret rich girl parties we would have together, wearing thousand-dollar gowns and flambée-ing caviar just because we could.  I was so excited.  Just for a few minutes, it was possible that all my biggest problems could just vanish, in a snap, just like that.

Of course, I didn't get anywhere near a winning combination of numbers that night, nor did I get one last night, even though I bought more tickets in a desperate attempt to hold onto the dream.  The thing is, I can see now why people go so lottery crazy.  Why they pool thousands of dollars for a chance at the freedom that being filthy-freaking-rich can afford you.  It's not that they really believe they will win -- at least I like to think so.  It's that they get caught up in the dream, in the  fantasy.  They imagine how they will react when they see that, yes, they have the winning numbers, checking and double-checking, tearing up and breathing fast turning to jumping up and down and screaming, to (is it possible?) self-urination as the reality sinks in.

That's not water, folks.

My consolation is that I can write about this dream, and in writing about it, I can make it real.  And the fact that so many people get to wrapped up in the feverish pursuit of lottery pipe dreams makes me think that maybe there's a little bit of writer in all of us, that everybody has a piece of themselves that is forever up in the clouds, wishing, dreaming, believing that it could happen. And that makes me feel a whole lot better about the world.  Is it better than a lottery win?  Probably not.  Is it better than nothing? Hell, yes.

Daydreaming makes you big and strong. In your head.