I have been making a "living" as an artist and a writer since 1984. Some of those years my tax preparer peers over my paperwork and marvels how someone can actually pull off a decent income "drawing pictures." Other years, well, he earnestly advises me to seek other employment.

Other employment ??????

I wasn't aware that what I did was employment. Because if I was I would have run screaming the other way a long time ago.

I've had jobs. I picked strawberries when I was a kid. A lot of us in my neighborhood did. Don't get me wrong, I did not live in some sort of Grapes of Wrath kind of situation. No, we all lived in a neat as a pin planned suburban grid full of ranches and split-levels and bridge clubs and station wagons. Picking strawberries wasn't a desperate attempt to pull the family out of financial ruin. No, it was a way for all the moms to get free babysitting for a few weeks.

They'd load us on some school bus that was retired from use because of obvious safety violations at 6:00 AM for a fun-filled day of scorching sun, marauding yellow jackets and sadistic berry bosses while the moms would spend their days - I don't know - drinking.

Then came the babysitting jobs which only fueled my hatred of all things children. It wasn't until I got a job in junior high answering phones at a men's hair salon that I actually got a paycheck. But here's the thing. The name of the place was "Gentleman's Choice". When a call would come in I would have to purr - that's right - that's what the owner (a woman) required of me -I would have to purr,

"Hello, Gentleman's Choice. How may I help you?"

Now, that's messed up.

It's a horrible thing when jobs make you say things that you would never, ever say in real-life. My high school job was at a pizza parlor - Pizza Caboose, that is. It wasn't in a caboose but had a picture of a caboose on its sign just in case you were confused by the reference.

Genius.

They had uniforms there and I had to wear this stupid engineer's cap with all my hair tucked up inside which served only to point out the fact my left ear sticks out. I might as well have been walking around with a red arrow over my head with a neon light flashing, "Hey, check out that ear!"

Does wonders for adolescent self-esteem, I must tell you.

But the worst thing there was how we had to call out the pizza orders. We were't wearing engineer caps for nothing. We were pizza engineers.

"All aboard! Pizza number 47! Pizza number 47!"

That's what I had to say.

When the manager was gone I would try to save some shred of dignity by downplaying the "all aboard" humiliation.

"allaboardpizzanumberfortysevenpizzanumberfortyseven."

But there was always some narc on duty that would tell the boss.

Oooh, I hate narcs.

Aside from a two-year soul killing stint at in an insurance processing center that has been the extent of my 'real jobs'.

Because one day I woke up.

I became an artist. And you know, I have worked my butt off for years to become that and stay that way. Some artists or writers when asked why they do what they do will go on and on about their 'need' to create.

That's fine.

Ask me and I'll tell you a different story. I do what I do because of a powerful fear.

A fear of employment.

Hey, it's hard work not having a job.

But it's great work if you can get it.