July 30, 2001

I have an unusual occupation — I write fantasy for a living.  This means I’m succeeding in a field where lots of people try and fail, a field lots of people dream about working in.  I often talk to people who are impressed, who say they’d never have the nerve or persistence or creativity or whatever to be a full-time writer.

Every so often I run into someone from my past who chose an even stranger field, one that strikes me as something I would never have dared to attempt, and that I never would have expected of the person in question.  There was a friend from high school who became a fine artist — he mostly shows at a gallery in Georgetown.  Another friend from high school now does special effects in Hollywood.  There was a guy named Norman who dropped out of Princeton to become a Formula One racer (and was pretty successful, last I heard).

And I’ve just discovered that a woman who roomed across the hall from me at Princeton is now a professional psychic.  She loves it — she gets paid to talk on the phone.

This is someone with a degree from Princeton — I think in either math or engineering, though I’m not certain.  And she’s a psychic.

These are very strange days indeed.

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