Manhattan, 12:30pm. I’m waiting for it to begin. My second life. Nothing exceptional. Just another day behind the lense. Like most writers, I have a real job. Videographer. As I said, nothing exceptional. I watch people all day and capture their most important moments. I’ve been at it for 17 years and it pays the bills. Built my own company from the ground up at one of the worst financial times in the country. It’s still not enough, though. Especially when you live in Northern New Jersey and are getting ready to buy a house at the age of 38. But I’m damn good at it. Occasionally it gets the juices flowing, especially when I’m back home editing. But it will never be like writing.
So here I am and this is reality. Another day in the trenches. In a few minutes I’ll be standing in front of a room full of bored people with a strange contraption mounted to my body. Deep down I think they’re all just hoping that I’ll trip and fall or get yelled at by the priest. After all, I’m the hated man, the video guy that people will do anything to avoid. That’s fine, though; I’ve gotten used to being invisible and in the background. I guess that’s what helps me except the fact that even successful writers probably rarely get noticed.
It’s good to have another life, though. A world in which you can function as a completely different individual and operate on a completely different level. There’s days I wish I had more of the human interaction every day corporate America has. Perhaps being a straphanger would add some seasoning to my life.
But here we are, ready to go. It’s 12:41pm now and I’m about to jump into my second skin. Batteries are charged, memory cards are wiped, caffeine’s coursing through my sluggish body.
Another day in the life of a broke, budding writer.