One evening years ago, at a party in the Church Hall, (I forget what the party was for) a woman sitting at the same table as I was asked me what I did for a living.
I had recently sold a couple of my writings… not, I’ll admit, for a great deal of money, but enough to make me feel like an almost professional writer.
I smiled and said, “I’m a writer.”
“But what kind of work do you do?” the woman wanted to know.
“I write,” I replied, resisting the temptation to add the word duh.
“Oh,” my interrogator went on, wrinkling her nose, “then you don’t work?”
I muttered under my breath, “Murder is a mortal sin, murder is a mortal sin, murder is a mortal sin….”