By Stephanie Abbajay

Last week, I was asked by the teachers at my daughter’s preschool to speak to their students during career week. When they asked me I thought they were kidding. “You know I’m a freelance writer, right?” I asked. Yes, they replied. “You know I sit in my office and write all day, right? By myself?” Yes, they replied. I didn’t they think they were getting the full picture of my career: I think. I write. Alone. Every day. No cool tools (except a sweet, brand new iMac with a 19-inch screen), no impressive uniform (I usually write from 5 a.m. to 7 a.m. and again right after my morning work out at the Wellness Center, which means I am either in jammies or smelly gym clothes), no impressive title (try telling someone at a party you’re a freelance writer and suddenly they need to hit the buffet table).

As careers go that would interest a roomful of five-year-olds, freelance writing isn’t one of them. I know this, which is why I tried to beg off. Heck, I love being a writer, but to a five-year-old, what could be more boring than this? I tried to demur, but the folks at Sonshine Kids wouldn’t have it; they wanted me to come. I asked who were the other people who would be speaking, so I could size up the competition. It looked bad for the writer. There was a police officer (a gun! a badge! a uniform!), two nurses (stethoscopes! that rubber knee-thingy! uniforms!), a youth minister (God!) and a pharmacist (fake pills! the ability to dispense drugs! a uniform!). What did I have? A laptop, a pen and a notebook. Yea, that should hold their attention.

But I took it seriously. I decided I would tell them all about my different clients and publications and describe a typical day in the life of a freelance writer. I wrote a little script, gathered some of my writings and printed out some of the things I was working on. Then I went to Sinclair’s and bought three bags of chocolate Easter eggs. This wasn’t my first day at the rodeo.

I was really excited on the big day. The kids were adorable and remarkably attentive. For a while. I launched into my this-is-what-a-freelance-writer-does-all-day thing. They stared straight back. I told them how I structure my day so as to be productive. One kid raised his hand. A question! Already! How great1 I thought. “Guess what,” he asked. “I fell on the playground yesterday.” Okaaay. I continued with my talk, telling them about my new computer and my beautiful new third-floor office called “the sanctuary.” They could have cared less. The little boy raised his hand again. “Yes?” I said. “Want to see my boo-boo?”, he said, as he rolled up his pant leg. Other kids started shuffling in their seats. I could see I was losing them.

So I pulled out my stack of published pieces and started to tell them about my clients and publishers and where my work is published. I showed them columns and articles I had written. Blank stares. I showed them my piece on the rise of political liberalism under Teddy Roosevelt that just came out in The American Interest Magazine. Two kids got up to go the bathroom. The rest flopped onto their sides. Then I had a brainstorm.

“Guess what else I do?” I said. “I ghost write.” The mention of the word ghost brought them back to attention; that is, until I told them what it means. “Here are some articles I ghost wrote for other people,” I said. I pulled out the first one. “Here is one I wrote for a consultant in Washington, D.C. for Talent Management Magazine. It’s called `Leveraging Generational Diversity in Succession Planning: The ABC’s of Mastering the Boomer-X-Y Divide.’” Someone started to cry. “Wait!” I said. “Here is another piece I wrote on vermicomposting called `As the Worm Turns.’” That was it. They were done with me.

I tried to lighten things up by reading some copy I recently wrote for a conditioner label: “With protein, panthenol and sunflower seed extract to protect and nourish, this lightweight leave-in conditioner leaves hair soft and manageable while adding brilliant shine. Beautiful, healthy hair is just a spray away!” But I had lost them. I looked at the clock: There were 15 minutes left in my 20-minute session.

There was nothing left to do but pull out the chocolate eggs, pass them out, and read the Dr. Seuss books I had brought for just such an emergency.

I passed the next speaker on my way out -- a nurse. She looked adorable in her uniform, stethoscope around her neck, blood pressure cuff at the ready. I told her I had warmed them up for her. I looked down and saw that she had bags of peanut butter cups for the kids. Better props than me, I thought and definitely better candy. She’s good. As I left, I told the kids not to cry when she gave them their shots.

Stephanie Abbajay’s writings may be read at stephanieabbajay.com