Of course, when I give readings or lectures or talks, it is to be expected that I’m a writer. That’s why I’m there. Even if I don’t wear a name tag (which I dislike with passion). I believe I’ve learned not to read too long (regardless of the great material), but I can chat and answer questions about writing until the cows come home to roost. Clichés with a twist a speciality.
In addition to being narrowed-in on as a writer, I have been mistaken for dead authors. In this situation I do believe I must make some comment. For the sake of the dead as well as myself. Although I believe I can still make a good impression as a person who is alive, even here I have run into trouble. A taxi driver did not want to believe that the writer he mistook me for was dead.
“I never heard that,” said he.
“It’s true.”
“Are you sure?”
“He’s been dead for years.”
“You look just like him.”
“Not in his present state,” said I.
The taxi driver did not find me humorous.
A few days ago, however, a new wrinkle was added to my apparent Zombie life.
I was sitting on a park bench,waiting for a bus and watching the bustle of the city pass by. A man of middle years, puffing on a Vapour, settled on a bench across from me. After a few additional puffs, he stated – not asked –
“You’re a writer.”
“Because I’m using a pen?” (which I was, though I was fiddling with sums)
