A True Novel

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TO BE A novelist by occupation or a novelist by calling—these are two different things.

IN THE COURSE of our lives, we are asked to fill out a surprising number of forms: embarkation and disembarkation cards, DVD-rental membership applications, requests for credit cards. These forms typically come with blank lines on which one is expected to write one’s “Name,” “Date of Birth,” “Address”—and “Occupation.” Faced with the line marked “Occupation,” I always hesitate. Obviously, I could easily write down “novelist,” but the word “Occupation” reminds me that I have published only two novels so far and that their royalties aren’t enough for me to make ends meet. As I scribble “self-employed” in the blank space—embarrassed by my handwriting, which is a mess, not that anybody cares nowadays—I wonder if I’ll ever be able to claim to be a “novelist” with a clear conscience. I can only imagine how gratifying it would be if I could actually earn my living writing novels.

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