Don't Call Me Clever
A Writer's Quiet Frustration.
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A few days ago, on a very dark and wet Sunday in Australia, whilst standing in the grocery store lamenting over the price of tinned fish – a culinary staple that felt particularly meagre against the backdrop of the gloomy weather – I was tapped on the shoulder by a friend that I have fallen out of contact with during recent years. This lack of contact was not for any reason other than the familiar culprits: we’re both busy navigating the currents of our respective lives, and time, that relentless river, moves with an alarming and often unnoticed speed, carrying us further apart with each passing season.
After the required hugs, a slightly awkward but nonetheless sincere physical reconnection, and the obligatory statements of regret about losing touch, those verbal acknowledgements of a shared past and a drifted present, she suggested we finish our respective, and now slightly delayed, purchases and meet at the coffee shop nestled conveniently next door to catch up. This sort of spontaneous socialisation, the unplanned collision of schedules and intentions, makes me nervous at best, stirring a familiar unease in my introverted soul. It is precisely the type of thing I actively avoid, usually by claiming I am rushing off to some vaguely defined appointment of another, a phantom commitment conjured to facilitate a swift and solitary exit. But this friend, buoyed perhaps by the unexpected reunion or possessing a more tenacious social spirit, was insistent, and after a brief, internal debate that played out in a series of polite but firm refusals met with equally unwavering counter-arguments, I had no real choice but to agree, a reluctant participant in an unscheduled social experiment.
After wandering up and down the brightly lit grocery aisles, my movements deliberately slow, each step a stalling tactic, my mind racing with a frantic inventory of reasons (excuses, to be brutally honest) why I would have to quickly run off and not stay to properly catch up. Each imagined scenario involved a pressing, unavoidable obligation, each more flimsy than the last. Finally, with my basket containing the now begrudgingly accepted tinned fish, I headed next door to the aroma-filled sanctuary of the coffee shop, steeling myself to try and manufacture small talk for the next hour, anticipating the stilted silences and the mental gymnastics required to keep the conversational ball airborne.
It wasn’t so bad, surprisingly. The initial awkwardness dissipated with the steam from our coffees. We discussed the familiar touchstones of adult life: our children, those miniature versions of ourselves demanding constant attention and worry; our spouses, the anchors and occasional irritants in our daily routines; and our parents, the ever-present figures casting long shadows of history and influence. As we sipped our lattes, a fragile bridge of shared experience began to form, and I began to feel a flicker of genuine comfort, a small pang of regret for allowing the threads of our friendship to fray. Until she said, with an innocent curiosity, “So what do you do?”
Now, this question. This seemingly innocuous, socially acceptable inquiry. I hate it. It feels like an interrogation, a subtle measuring stick against which one’s worth is instantly assessed. I have sometimes been known to offer deliberately absurd answers, a small act of rebellion against the perceived judgment. “Well, I like to ice-skate… and walk my dogs,” I might say, just to witness the brief flicker of confusion that crosses their faces, a momentary disruption of their status-gauging protocol. I feel like this question is like a social probe, the asker unconsciously (or consciously) using it to gauge their own position within the social hierarchy relative to their companions.
Despite my usual aversion, I decided to give my friend the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps her curiosity was genuine, untainted by the unspoken comparisons I often project onto such inquiries. I explained, in simple terms, that I’m a freelance writer, that I’m currently immersed in the solitary and often frustrating process of editing a novel, and that I also channel my thoughts and observations into a weekly SubStack newsletter, a digital missive sent out into the vast expanse of the internet.
“Wow, aren’t you clever?” she said, her tone genuinely impressed, her eyes wide with what seemed like sincere admiration. There was no hint of sarcasm, no subtle undertone of anything untoward about her delivery. And yet, despite the positive intent, I felt my smile falter, dropping a fraction, a subtle deflation of my briefly buoyant mood.
We concluded our coffee catch-up with a warm hug and the familiar, often hollow, promises to stay in touch this time, because that’s the socially prescribed way to end such an encounter. But as I walked away, a knot of discomfort and a vague sense of annoyance tightened in my chest, a feeling I couldn’t entirely articulate until the quiet hours of this morning.
I don’t want to be thought of as clever. Clever suggests a natural, innate ability, a certain ease, and effortless grace. Writing, for me, is anything but easy. Some days it feels less like creation and more like a brutal extraction, akin to pulling teeth, each word a stubborn, resistant entity. It’s the agonizing search for just the right word, that elusive syllable that carries the precise weight and nuance of meaning. It’s the relentless going over and over and over of a single paragraph, a microscopic examination of syntax and rhythm until the meaning lilts with the correct phrasing, a subtle melody that resonates with the intended emotion. It’s like choreography, a performance meant to appear fluid and effortless, but underpinned by countless complicated, tiny steps, each meticulously rehearsed to create the illusion of simplicity.
Short of calling up my friend and launching into a detailed explanation of the blood, sweat, and mental tears that go into every sentence I craft (a socially unadvisable move, surely?), her well-intentioned comment is something that I will likely have to just swallow down, a small, indigestible lump of unspoken frustration. But I think, I truly think, that next time someone carelessly uses the ‘C’ word in relation to my writing, I will offer a gentle but firm correction, something along the lines of, “No, I’m not clever, just determined and stubbornly hard working.”
I hope you, dear reader, have a great weekend, free from the unintended sting of casual compliments.
Find something inspiring to read, something that speaks to the quiet determination behind the seemingly effortless artistry.
See you next Friday,
C M Reid at the Ink-Stained Desk.
