When I tell people I'm a writer, I immediately get "the look". Not just one, actually. Make that a parade of emotions marching across the listener's face, like clown after clown climbing out of a Smart Car.

First comes the raised brows when they assume, "Oh, you're one of those..." Those meaning you're a slacker who probably still lives in your mother's basement watching reruns of Lassie in your underwear.

Which is followed by a twitch along the jawline, a cue they've moved on to thinking, "Writing isn't a job; it's a freakin' hobby." Right. Because we all know that a real job consists of clocking 8.5 hours in a cube farm where everyone gives off a dead-fish glow from basking in the florescent lights.

Then their eyes narrow as they give you a quick once over and wonder how a starving artist can sport such a paunchy gut and double chin. I won't even mention the upper arm jiggle. Oops. Just did.

And right before they smile and say, "Oh, that's nice!" A ticker-tape runs at high speed across the frontal lobe of their grey matter with "What a loser...are you on welfare...that's what's wrong with this country...wonder if they can help me get published?"

Yeah. Writers lead a charmed life.