The other night I tweeted about this briefly, but in the last few weeks I’ve had one of those uncomfortable personal revelations. I’ve never figured out exactly why it’s so easy to see things in other people’s lives while being completely oblivious to your own. If you figure that one out, let me know.
Well here’s what I’ve realized: I am not an entrepreneur.
If you know me in real life this is ridiculous. Of course I’m not an entrepreneur. OF COURSE. I don’t like business. I don’t like money. I mean, I like having money, but I don’t enjoy extracting it from others. I derive very little pleasure from earning money. I know I NEED it to live and eat and whatnot, but I was totally the girl who found three uncashed checks in her drawer when I finished my last job. I’m not motivated by money. I often work for free and love to volunteer my time.
But I love entrepreneurs. Adore them. I love people with ideas and passion. I love people who are making their dreams come true. I love people who work hard. I love innovators.
Sadly, however, I don’t think I’m one of them.
I actually think I might be–gasp–a creative.
I am so resistant to this idea. I think of creatives as the type of people who can’t be depended upon. They are flaky and always late and have no common sense. I like to believe I’ve got common sense. It’s OK for other people to be creative, but me? No, sir. I’m way to level-headed for that.
There’s also that whole thing where being creative means putting yourself out there. You can hide a little with paint, but writing? I have always felt rather firmly that I am NOT a writer. Writers are smarter than I am. Writers are better at grammar and writers probably don’t read detective novels. I’m pretty sure they sit around reading Proust in their spare time. I’m also sure that writers did not get B’s in English like I did.
But here I am (starting a sentence with a conjunction) typing away on this keyboard day after day.
I’m not an entrepreneur, but maybe I’m a writer.