I’m taking fifteen minutes under the pretense of looking up pictures of the Scissor Sisters (vital for the work I do) in order to do some clandestine blogging.
I am waiting to hear from three editors, and, naturally and as usual, I am giving myself an ulcer and wearing out the “refresh” button on Logan’s lap top. I hope I hear from one or all of them soon. When nothing is happening in the writing I’m forced to confront my Big Dilemma.
This involves me admitting I don’t make enough money at the work I do, that I should probably change jobs because I’m sick to death of being broke, but the work I do has other good things going for it (like a boss who understands when I suddenly have to take two weeks of to go to a con and finish a book to say nothing of a staff full of incredible, warm, talented people). I also don’t want to do anything but write books for the rest of my life, so enthusiastically lying through an interview in order to become a government worker who hates her colleagues and is bored stiff by her work is not only a big fucking waste of time, it’s also beneath me.
So I’m waiting. And refreshing my email every minute. And hoping to hear back from some of the editors because communicating with them about the work I want to do makes it feel like it might, just might, be possible to work as a writer for a living.
For the record, the email doesn’t have to be good news. The editors could all email me back that I’m fat and on one loves me or my work. Yes, I would be angry at them (even though it wouldn’t be my first email like that and it won’t be the last), but it would light a fire under my ass and motivate me to work harder, learn more and stop moping at the computer and hitting the refresh button like a god damned lab rat at the feeder bar.
