From Medium:
Tokyo is a hive of networking events. Every week is a flood of art exhibitions, start-up conferences, developer meetings, product launches, and career meet-ups. Recently, I’ve attended quite a few.
Sometimes, if I’m lucky, a person will recognize me and say hello. Little interactions like this make me feel warm inside. I feel like I’m making my way in the world.
“Oh, you’re that writer Trent told me about,” people say. “I love that story you wrote about escalators.”
“Trains?”
“Yes, yes. Quite wonderful. Very thoughtful. And you also write about tea, is that right?”
“Coffee?”
“Of course, yes. Amazing places, tea houses. Such culture in this city. I love your work.”
But as much as I enjoy occasional recognition, more often than not I simply watch people and try not to look awkward. Sometimes people introduce me to their friends like a novelty pet — ‘he wrote a story about cats!’ — and we have short, forgettable conversations.
Coming to these events has made me realize that something about me is, ultimately, forgettable. People sometimes remember my work, but they very rarely remember who wrote it.
. . . .
The people who have forgotten you tend to feel terrible, but your very reminder reinforces the fact you’re a nobody.
After all, if you weren’t, they would have remembered you.
I struggled with this for a time. I enjoyed being awkward at networking parties, but I didn’t like having to reintroduce myself multiple times.
So, I began introducing myself as a new person each time somebody forgot me.
In this way, I became Casey Brewster, freelance photographer and part-time cellist, and Bradley Ternminster, soundscape artist and web-designer. I was a film director and a surfing aficionado, and a DJ on a tourist visa espousing monk-like austerity. Occasionally, I also brewed craft beer and translated Japanese into Latin for the wealthy.
Link to the rest at Medium