So yesterday, after working late, I went out to grab some takeout for dinner. The woman getting my order asked if I was tired, and I said I was; then she asked what I did for a living.
“I’m a writer,” I said.
“What you do,” she began, then hesitated, and I waited to smile politely at whatever misconception about writing I was about to hear next. But she only said, “What you do, I think it is a beautiful job.”
What a lovely way to end a long day.
We spent the rest of the time while I waited for my order talking about our childhood journals, and how we both go back to them every so often, and remember who we were.