You’re not on the list

The volunteer at the box office flashed me the usual puzzled expression I receive when I tell people my surname.

“Keck? That can’t be right.”
“So it’s not on the list?”
“No, I mean it doesn’t sound right. Is it a real word?”
“No, it’s a real name.”
“Oh… Is it like your nom de plume?”
“Just the nom really”

Some people have the type of surname that is easily ticked off a list.
Smith? Check.
Jones? Check.
Not me. I have a German surname that roughly translated means cheeky or impudent, a more apt name I could not have hoped for. However, the English definition is “the noise made before vomiting” and in the north of England kecks refer to your underpants. So cheeky vomit knickers is apparently my legacy to any unfortunate children I spawn. Although with me as a parent the surname is the least of their worries.

I watched the volunteer’s pale finger run down the page, her slender nail gliding past the names of frustratingly talented writers, illustrators, and musicians. Not a huge surprise that mine wasn’t there.

There’s a wonderfully awkward moment when you realise you’re not on the guest list of an event. It’s akin to that feeling you get when no one jumps out and yells ‘happy birthday!’ at your surprise party because everyone forgot to turn up, and the only person to greet you is your cat licking his privates while maintaining an unsettling amount of eye contact.

The volunteer gave a sheepish grin. “Sorry, you’re just not on the list. Are you a writer?”. I had pondered this very question the week before. “How do you know if you’re a writer?” I asked. The volunteer fidgeted with her lanyard for a moment. “Do you write full time or do you have a job?”. I told her I had a fairly shitty rent paying job. “Ok, so when you meet people at parties do you bring up the shitty job or introduce yourself as a writer?” I stared at my sneakers. My silence was all the answer she needed. “Congratulations” she said as she took my hand in hers, “You belong here now”. She handed me a lanyard with the word ‘industry’ printed on it. My bottom lip quivered.

I knew the Melbourne Writers Festival volunteers were helpful. I had no idea they were crush your lump of soul until it became a diamond kind of helpful.