What Am I Missing?

I sat for a very long time in a one bedroom apartment, waiting for a call. Or a knock on the door. Or someone to stop me on the street. None of these contacts occurred. 

Jerry Seinfeld has suggested that there should be a Creative Potential Commission. They would scour the planet for those individuals who had shown the spark of originality and passion, but who were waiting for their big chance. To do whatever it was that they figured they would do. When they landed in one of those one bedroom apartments with a Creative Writing Degree. Or a Poetic License. Or a whim to be a standup comedian. 

Mister Seinfeld, as it turns out, is a professional comedian. He has been for quite some time. He started performing at open mics while he was still attending college. No one from the Creative Potential Commission ever contacted him. That entity was a bit of snarky whimsy from the mind of a professional comedian who put himself out there in his late teens and early twenties when he would not take "no" for an answer. He only heard "not right now." He just kept doing what he was doing until folks broke down and gave him a chance. He was the one knocking on doors and making cold calls. 

I was not. I was sitting in that one bedroom apartment, filling spiral notebooks with funny bits and dark poems that did not rhyme. I wrote short stories that required intimate knowledge of what was going on in my life to understand. I did not feel the need to do anything that could be construed as "commercial."

I felt that this strategy would eventually be rewarded by worldwide acceptance and appreciation. If they only knew how I had slaved and suffered for my art. That's where I expected the Creative Potential Commission would step in. Not that I had those words to describe it back then. I did figure that all that college tuition that my parents had paid would surely help fund such a service. I wasn't living in a dorm, or eating their awful food service. The least the university could do was to steer folks to my steady stream of mostly confidential output. 

Well, as it turns out, all those years of waiting turned out to be for naught. Even though I was able to put together eloquent sentences like the one you just finished reading, I was never contacted by the company that wanted me to come and write for them professionally. All the jobs I have had were a direct result of me going out and interviewing for them. I needed to put myself in a position to attract attention, and I received it. The somewhat numbing realization that I have gotten every job for which I have interviewed now makes me wonder if there wasn't some higher calling that I may have missed. 

Or my own personal sitcom.