I’m an aspiring waiter. I work as a writer.
Being a waiter pays crap, so I have to write poems to make ends meet.
In fact, I spend a lot of time writing poems just so I’ll have a little time to wait tables. You know how it is. I know I’m not the only one.
I hate writing but it pays the rent. I just wish it didn’t take so much time, and wear me out so much.
I was born to be a waiter. It’s in my blood. I have the gift.
On a good day, writing poems is something I can do with half my attention, while reserving the best of myself for thinking about waiting.
On a bad day, I feel like a slave, tending to impatient and demanding poems.
On a good day, I have enough energy to do my poetry job and then maybe a little energy left to do my waiting.
On a bad day, I’m tired at work, and exhausted at home, and it’s all I can do to watch a movie or catch up on correspondence.
I’ve attended lots of waiting workshops. Depending on my finances, I’ll be able to attend another one this summer. Some of the big names will be there, and I really want to meet them and show them my stuff and get their feedback.
When I was a kid, I was always waiting. I enjoyed it.
Waiting took me to new places. My parents encouraged it.
My friends were kind of jealous of my talent.
My teachers showed interest in my work.
I don’t want to let them down now.
I don’t want to quit and just become another statistic—another failed waiter.