My mother never understood what I did for a living. "You're supposed to be a writer. But some of the things you write don't even have words. So, what did you do?" she would ask. Solid question. One I never really answered. Today, if she were still around, I'd explain conceptual thinking to her. And making connections with people. In hopes of gaining their trust and loyalty. She'd likely look at me with love in her eyes. The way she often would. But those eyes would also have a little disappointment in them. Realizing that her youngest son had grown up to be full of shit. Thankfully, I never had to convince my mother to hire me.