Job Title? Writer.

Our mail usually arrives around the time I leave the house, so I often take it right out of the mail carrier's hands. It's a different person most of the time, and today it was an older gentleman.

"Any GOOD mail? Or just junk like usual?" I joked.

"Hmm...here's a magazine!" he replied, sifting through his boxes.

"Probably one of my roomates' tennis mags," I grumbled. Then I saw that it was Poets & Writers. "Oh! It's one of mine! I'm the writer in the house, and my roommates are athletes," I explained.

"Wow, you make your living as a writer?" the mailman asked.

I preened a bit. "Yes I do," I declared, not bothering to add that I also work at a book publishing company AND teach two composition classes. "I write for several local publications."

"That's great," he said. "I used to be a writer. I wrote about sports. But I got married and had children and I couldn't make a living for my family at it. So I became a mail carrier! Good luck with your writing!"

I couldn't decide whether I felt amused or discouraged as he drove off. I didn't share the fact that I, too, can't make a living totally as a freelance writer. Instead, I let him think that I do. It got me thinking: Are most writers like that? Either juggling a bunch of jobs or switching careers to something secure like mail delivery in order to support the family, but still telling people that they're a writer?

Years ago I was out with my friend Gayden who works as a nurse, when a bunch of other nurses that knew her asked me if I was a nurse too.

"Heck no. I'm a writer," I said without missing a beat. And back then I was in graduate school! I hardly wrote at all--and I definitely didn't write for money to speak of.

So it seems that, no matter WHAT we writers end up doing with our lives, we remain writers, eager to share our stories with whomever chats us up at the bar or hands us our mail. The rest is just...filler.

I'll Take My Halloween With a Side of Juvenilia, Please.

Around Charleston, folks are already celebrating Halloween. Saturday night was the "Skinful Charleston" Halloween party that everyone seems to adore. (I had a few friends who live in other states actually venture to Charleston for it.) It's basically a giant party on a giant piece of land where everyone gets insanely drunk, watches light shows, listens to bands, and wears the most scandalous outfit possible. Despite the expense of the tickets, everyone raves that it's the "coolest party all year."

It is not my scene. Instead, I hosted a small gathering at my house for a few good friends. But somehow, I got roped into the whole Skinful drama when I had to pick up an exceptionally drunk friend from the soiree. She..uh...had a bit too much to drink and pretty much had to go home immediately.

 It got me thinking about what Halloween represents these days. I loved the holiday when I was a kid. It meant scouting the neighborhood with my sister and tons of our neighbors, receiving a load of candy, and eating it for weeks. It meant scooping out pumpkin guts in the sunny backyard with my awesome Uncle Joe. It meant wearing makeup to school when I was too young to actually wear makeup. 

But now, as a grownup, Halloween seems to be nothing more than a time for trashy dressing and drinking yourself silly. Not everyone does that, of course, but it feels like if you don't have children of your own, to carve pumpkins for and to take trick or treating, then the wholesome fun of Halloween is long gone. My sister says I'm "just being grumpy," and that not everyone has to get drunk and show their rear end in order to enjoy themselves.

So, I think I'm going to have to change the tradition, at least for myself. Not that I don't love a drink every now and then, but I don't need a special day, or outfit, to celebrate with a cocktail. Nope, this year my halloween plans will include the following:

1. Carving the awesome pumpkin that Stefan brought home for the dinner party.
2. Buying candy. I'm not sure what kind yet, but maybe something deliciously childish, rather than my usual salted dark chocolate. I'm thinking Tootsie Roll Pops and Starbursts.
3. I don't like horror movies, but I'm positive I can handle reading something spooky, like Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark.
4. I'll probably pay a visit to the fair and I'll probably eat some junk.
5. Maybe I'll wear a traditional costume next weekend, like a giant sheet with a hole cut in it for my head.

Happy Halloween!

BOO!

Oh! K.

I went to dinner with my stepsister tonight, and she returned a book of mine that she'd had for absolutely years. In fact, in the front of the book where I always write my name it said "Denise James." That's how long I've had the book, and how long she's had it.

I didn't always use my middle initial. As a kid, I hated my middle name and I hated my name, period. I didn't know anyone named Denise, and my middle name seemed even weirder. Now that I'm grown I love my middle name. It was my great-grandmother's first name and I'm proud to wear it. Around the time I finished graduate school I started using my middle initial for everything. On research papers, on the cheesy freelance pieces I wrote for publications that no longer exist--and it just became my whole name: Denise K. James. When I got a Facebook I put K in the last name spot for my account moniker, thus being nicknamed "Denise K." Nowadays, I tell everyone not to leave out the K.

When I checked out the front of the book that Rebecca returned tonight, my name seemed naked. I love my middle initial. I think it adds flair.

But don't get me wrong. I'm thrilled to have the book back. Even without a K.