I've discovered outside of Manhattan nobody has any concept of what I do or what I want to be. As much as I can try to explain to my friends and family back home in suburban Philadelphia that I'm still trying to be a writer even though most of the stuff that I do is for the Web and I don't get paid for it, they're not grasping.

"So, you like work with computers then, huh?"

That's what most of the people back home think that I do, and that's after I begin to feel a little more comfortable and provide a brief explanation of the Web sites I write for. Some of them will then ask me questions about problems they're having with their service providers or how to get rid of e-mail viruses.

I've stopped trying to explain to people what I do or use the haughty generalization of "writer" as my line of work. "Writer" conjures up images in people's heads. Most often that of an artsy-fartsy, pretentious prick who smokes a lot of cigarettes, broods, and has an utter contempt for capitalism. Now, when confronted with situations involving small talk party conversation, I just skip right to the truth: I'm just an editor for a financial publication. However, it's only slightly less confusing and causes problems of its own.

"Which one?" they ask.

I'll tell them which one it is and then they'll try to ask me about advice on the stock market.

"I just write what the experts tell me. I'm just a messenger. I have no idea half the time what I'm writing about."

Then they'll look at me again, more confused, not having any idea what to with me since the small-talk is going nowhere. Then they'll exit the conversation and go off and drink, sometimes mumbling "pretentious prick" as they walk away from me. It's a no-win situation. There was a time, however, when I was just a writer, a famous one, no less, and the only explanation that was needed was in the local bookstores.

Chicken Soup for the Golfer's Soul was put on the shelves in late May of 1999. The gigantic chain bookstores displayed the book usually with a "Great gifts for Dad" placard sitting in front of it. There were hundreds of them piled high in an off-white, soft-cover pyramid. And inside each and every one of those books was my name: Butterscotch by A.J. Daulerio. Pg. 105.

My family was elated. Relatives and friends from across the country made phone calls and requested a signed book. Some would come to the house and make me sign it, which made me very uncomfortable.

"Oh, come on sign it please. Your cousin Maureen would really like it," my Aunt Ellen said.

Cousin Maureen was four years old. Cousin Maureen could neither read, nor golf.

But, I signed it anyway.

Maureen, Glad you liked the story! Hope to see you soon! signature...

That summer the book was released was full of those awkward moments. My mother had me sign a book for her 62-year-old hairdresser who had came over from Italy and spoke minimal English. She thought I was a famous author. She not only requested a signed book, but also a headshot signed to Maria's Fancy Stylings so she could hang it above the cash register. I finally convinced my mother, no matter how much she protested, that it wasn't a good idea.

My father and I play in a father-son tournament at his country club every Father's Day and even though the book was put out five years ago, there always seems to be one of his cronies excited to meet me, most often because they'd just received the book as a present and they've bragged about how they golfed with the author's father.

Most encounters start off very polite, but then ultimately, make me want to swing a club at them:

"Hey, I really enjoyed your story. That was really something."

"Thanks Mr.____. I appreciate that."

"So what are you up to now?"

"I live in New York, trying to write."

"Oh, New York, huh? Is that where the Chicken Soup offices are?"

I've stopped trying. As much as I try to separate my work from that Chicken Soup story, it'll be completely impossible unless, of course, I have a story published in another book that can be bought at the airport or the mall. Everything I write now goes, for the most part, unread. Some of it is horrible. Some of it I'm proud of. But mostly all of it will never get read by some of the people I truly care about because they'll never take the time to look. But that's okay. That's how it's supposed to be. I received an e-mail from my sister last week. She told me that my six-year old niece was using "your book" for show-and-tell. She attached my niece's presentation speech that she read to the class:

My show-and-tell today is a book written by my Uncle A.J. called Chicken Soup for the Golfer's Soul. It sold over a million copies! He is my favorite uncle and lives in New York City where he is a writer of books. They make and sell books in New York City, so that is why he is there. I don't know any of the other books he has written, but I am sure they are great also.