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Well, crap.
Nov. 16th, 2004 03:53 pmI think that I was napping when I got the call (Well, up early on 2 hours sleep and no where to go...what would you be doing at noon?), so it caught me a bit off guard. A quick phone interview and a sudden, near panicked search to find an article that I'd written (and keep promising to post) for my former job's (I LOVE being able to say that) newsletter, so that I could offer it up as a writing sample.
And of course, it was in a really safe spot. So safe that it took me nigh on half an hour to find it. Naturally. I really need to unpack that box of stuff that lived in my desk. But where the heck to put it?
Anyrate, transcribe it from paper (what happened to the copy I had on disk?), and then start going through stuff to see what's appropriate for submission.
My god, what filth I've written. It's funny, I've let my mom read pretty much all of this stuff (save for the up-coming article for The People's Dance Party), but I feel bad about letting anyone else read it. I've got no qualms about letting the folks on Live Journal read my smut (Ah, smut), but then it's a different thing here. It's an experiment in bad literature...of sorts.
Eh.
I manage to pick out some stuff that I'm down with (How very little of it. How very little of it is in electronic form. What's'a'matter'fo'me?) and clip it to the email.
Then comes the email itself. I fight with my computer's freezing up, and then it let's me write. So I write. And I spellcheck. And I quickly proofread.
Why issit that you always find the one thing that spellcheck missed *after* you've hit send? Eh, whichever. Que Sera Sera.
Watch. I'll be crying later. But for now, I'm still on vacation. So be it.
And of course, it was in a really safe spot. So safe that it took me nigh on half an hour to find it. Naturally. I really need to unpack that box of stuff that lived in my desk. But where the heck to put it?
Anyrate, transcribe it from paper (what happened to the copy I had on disk?), and then start going through stuff to see what's appropriate for submission.
My god, what filth I've written. It's funny, I've let my mom read pretty much all of this stuff (save for the up-coming article for The People's Dance Party), but I feel bad about letting anyone else read it. I've got no qualms about letting the folks on Live Journal read my smut (Ah, smut), but then it's a different thing here. It's an experiment in bad literature...of sorts.
Eh.
I manage to pick out some stuff that I'm down with (How very little of it. How very little of it is in electronic form. What's'a'matter'fo'me?) and clip it to the email.
Then comes the email itself. I fight with my computer's freezing up, and then it let's me write. So I write. And I spellcheck. And I quickly proofread.
Why issit that you always find the one thing that spellcheck missed *after* you've hit send? Eh, whichever. Que Sera Sera.
Watch. I'll be crying later. But for now, I'm still on vacation. So be it.
