An Accidental Writer

Chris Knapman
Nov 7 · 6 min read

My lunch finished and paid for, I left the cafe and headed back to work. As I walked to my office, I caught sight of the digital sign at the entrance to the university campus. A female student’s face smiled out of the frame, with a slogan in white text imprinted across the image. I knew it off by heart — it was a slogan I wrote. I could still remember the communications meeting I suggested it in. Fear had bubbled up inside me as the opportunity presented itself, so I almost didn’t say anything at all. When I offered it, it came almost as an apology. Now, as I watched the slogan pass through the screen, I felt a brief burst of pride. Work had rarely brought me deep pleasure — that real sense of pride, where not only did I achieve something, but I achieved something using a skill or talent that was part of my identity — and so I noticed that this was real. And for a brief moment, the past six years flashed by in my mind, and I was reminded that this job had become something of an epiphany for me: the first time I had felt like I found my vocation. It was the first time in my life I’d been able to legitimately call myself a writer. Instead of being someone who occasionally dabbled with writing lyrics or blogging, and who in the previous 35 years had let every opportunity to pursue writing as a career quietly pass me by, I had finally — completely by accident — landed in a writing job I didn’t even know existed until I was offered it. It felt good. I felt a little in control. And also a little happier to let life carry me from hereon in.

When I had applied for the job, I had no idea I was applying to be a writer. I’d been in Canada for two months, sent off a few applications, and as yet had not been invited to an interview. Though Alice was earning good money, the longer I went by without work, the harder it was to enjoy the limitless free time in a new city. I felt like a ghost, or a transient, drifting through the city, enjoying its food, its beer and its endless scenery, but not truly interacting with it or becoming part of it. I worried that being here on a two-year work permit put employers off from interviewing me. But then, this job at UBC came up, and I was encouraged to see it was cover for a maternity leave, a one year contract. My work permit would cover it, so shouldn’t be a concern.

And so I applied to be a Development Coordinator at Annual Giving. My past experience at GreaterSport seemed to fit perfectly, the job description asking for various skills I’d learned working in a smaller non-profit, from data analysis to volunteer management.

I remember when my phone rang. I answered, “Hello, Chris Knapman speaking.”

“Oh Chris, this is Lea calling from Annual Giving at UBC. How are you today?”

“I’m good thank you. How are you?”

“I’m great, thanks. I’m calling to offer you an interview for the Development Coordinator position, if you’re still interested in the role.”

I swallowed an excited, and nervous, burst of energy. “Yes, I’m definitely still interested.”

“Great, would you be available for an interview at 2pm next Thursday?”

“Absolutely.”

“OK. Now before you agree to come for interview, I do need to tell you that the job is not exactly as advertised.”

“OK,” I said, while thinking — here we go, it’s going to be something I’m not at all qualified for.

“It’s actually 100% a writing job. You will be writing solicitations to alumni and donors.”

A pall of disappointment rushed over me. I had no real idea what she meant by “writing solicitations”. It didn’t sound anything like the job I had imagined, or the job that was advertised. It was a dead end. But never mind, it was the first time anyone in Canada had offered me an interview, and so I figured I should go through with it just for the experience. I had no idea how interviews in Canada would compare to the UK, so I should at least take the opportunity of a practice run.

“Oh, OK, “ I responded, hesitation clear in my voice. “That’s fine, I’ll see you on Thursday.”

“Great,” said Lea, “We’ll look forward to meeting you. Have a great day.”

“Thanks, you too. Goodbye.”

I put my phone down and wandered into the bedroom, and looked out towards the North Shore mountains, which at that point were completely invisible, hidden beneath a ceiling of grey. It could have been the skies above Manchester; sometimes it seemed like the very character of Vancouver was in those mountains, and so when their form was removed from the scene, the scene became nothing at all — a formless grey city, that could sit under any grey sky in the world — which made the impact of the mountains all the greater when the weather cleared. Vancouver was only what it was by its contrast to its backdrop — by the shape it cut out of the skyline behind it. Its towers of glass and concrete created a man-made geometry of hallways and mirrors that somehow both merged perfectly with the surroundings, and stood out in defiance against them. It was a beautiful city, not in and of itself, but only in how it had been built up in contrast to the jagged and random earth that surrounded it. It was order, fashioned in a corner of continental disorder — and it was an order that was fragile, always at risk of being knocked down by the next big earthquake, but through its glass and arrow-straight downtown highways reflected and magnified nature rather than denied it, simultaneously obscuring and glorifying the scenery around it.

But right now, there were no mountains. No character and no perspective. My excitement at being offered an interview had been flattened to a grey nothingness. I would have to apply for more jobs. Hope for more interviews, all the while as the city went on around me, ignorant of my presence.

I wandered back into the living room, and then turned right into our tiny cupboard of a kitchen, and switched on the kettle.

100% writing.

100% writing? That didn’t seem possible. How could it be 100% writing? What did Lea mean when she said “solicitation”? In truth I had only half heard what she said. From the moment she said it wasn’t the job advertised, I’d allowed the disappointment to blur my senses. I was still feeling out of focus, but something — maybe the sound of the kettle starting to boil — brought me back into focus.

I had always enjoyed writing. At school, English was my favourite subject, but somewhere around the age of 17 I’d abandoned it, having been warned that English at university was less about writing than it was about reading. I studied philosophy, played cricket, lost any sense of direction or vocation, and so spent the best part of a decade working in steadily less demeaning call centre jobs, before finally getting off the phones and working in project management. Yet any time there was an opportunity to write, I would put up my hand. Case studies, web pages, reports, I always volunteered, telling various managers that I enjoyed writing. I never studied it, never wanted to go into journalism, or study marketing, yet it was there. I wrote lyrics, I blogged, and so, if I could get paid for it, why not?

And now, someone was offering me a full-time job, writing. Five days a week, writing. As yet, I didn’t know what I would be writing, but as the kettle reached it’s boil, so my focus came back. This could actually be perfect. I could write for a living. At least for a year.

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