The older I get, the less I understand the world or anything in it. I just spent about half an hour on the Facebook and Twitter trying to figure out how many “followers” I have – something that sounds just as stupid as it is. The idea that anyone is following me is, quite frankly, horrifying and – I’m pretty sure – one of the signs of the Apocalypse.

I do take some small comfort in the knowledge that the term “followers” does not actually denote any kind of discipleship, worship, or adoration, but is actually social media-speak for “people who are marginally interested in what I have to say OR are just “following” me in hopes I’ll reciprocate” – which would admittedly be hard to fit on a little “button” (or is it “icon”?) on a screen. I say small comfort because I’m a word guy. I like words. I hope to make a living with them. I also feel pretty strongly that they have meaning – or at least that they used to.

And why was I trying to figure out how many followers I have? Because I’m trying to find an agent or publisher for my book, and many agents/publishers want to know that stuff . In addition to how many followers I have, they want to know how active I am on social media, do I have a website, do I have a blog, etc., and how will all that fit into marketing my book, should they deign to represent/publish it.

Seriously? I thought all that marketing stuff was their job (just another thing I’m clueless about). Here I was, thinking all I had to do was spend a couple years’ worth of blood, sweat, and tears researching, writing, re-writing, workshopping, and editing my book, not to mention all the actual money I spent on research, find someone to represent or publish it, and then it was just sit back, put my feet up and wait for the checks to start flooding in.

I mean sure, I figured I might have to do some promotional stuff, like bookstore readings, interviews, talk shows, maybe walk a few red carpets (kidding. I’m stupid, but not delusional), but not actually come up with some kind of marketing strategy. I’m not anybody’s idea of a salesman. I couldn’t sell ice cubes in hell.

And that’s just on the “somebody PLEASE buy my book” front.

Employment is almost as bad. See, I had a master plan – I’d go to graduate school, get an MFA, and then I could get a job teaching at a college. Hahahahahahahaha. Sadly, there were two things I didn’t know: 1) Unless you’ve got tenure or are at least in a tenure-track position (which at my age is extremely unlikely), it is almost impossible make a living teaching at a college as an adjunct (unless you’re just phoning it it or willing to work yourself to death).

And 2) I kind of suck at teaching. I wasn’t really expecting that. I think I was probably at least adequate (marginally), but I just could not connect with the students. Naturally, I blame them. Okay, not really. At worst, it was a 50/50 split, but I think the bulk of the problem was me. At any rate, I care too much about teaching to be willing to do it badly. At my age, I think I’m too set in my ways, and don’t really have time (or the inclination) to change.

So, I’ve gone back to something I am good at: being a Writing Consultant, or Mentor, or whatever they’re calling it this week, at IU East. It’s a great job, and I’m working with great people, but it’s only part-time. Still, I’m hoping it’ll be enough for us to get by until those bestseller-level checks start pouring in.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining (well not a lot, anyway). I’ve made every decision that got me here, and honestly, I don’t know that I’d change any of them if I could. I’ve met some great people along the way, and done some cool stuff, and learned a lot of lessons (many of which weren’t even painful!). I didn’t go to college to get a job. I went to college to learn, and to grad school to get better at the thing I love, which is writing. In both cases, I feel like I succeeded.

I can’t even say I’m surprised at where I’ve ended up. Given my predilection for stubbornness, hard-headedness, and self-destructiveness, I guess I’m surprised that I’m doing as well as I am. I blame it on my wife, the lovely, talented, and long-suffering Jess. My decision to pursue her relentlessly until I wore her down and convinced her to marry me is probably the only good decision I’ve ever made, or at least the absolute best one. She really is the best.

So anyway, here I am, a wildly overeducated middle-aged man with no practical marketable skills and no real inclination to develop any, hoping to strike gold as a writer. Trust me, I know how stupid it sounds – roughly as stupid as it is – still, a dreamer’s gotta dream, right?

Besides, I figure if the writing doesn’t work out and worse comes to worst, I can always go into politics (taking up prostitution seemed like a more decent and honourable option, but I saw myself in the mirror, so that’s off the table). Looking at the clown show that our congress has turned into, I figure its the one field in which a guy like me, with no discernible talents other than bullshitting, can still really shine.

Please join me now in prayer that it doesn’t come to that (seriously, if I do get my book published, buy a copy. If not for my sake, then for the sake of the country!)