It Comes With The Territory...

Princess (that would be me) has not had a good week. I’ve finally been introduced to the “real” world of writing which through my cunning and wiles (and luck) I’ve managed to avoid for the past 4 years.

Here’s the deal. Rewrites in the world of writing are a given. I subscribe to several list-servs and writers’ magazines and there are entire sections devoted to writers comparing the rewrite needs of editors. You’ll see postings such as, “Good pay, but asked for 3 rewrites, the last one rather extensive,” or “Editor completely changed direction on me after I’d turned the article in.”

I’ve been lucky in that I really haven’t dealt with this. One or two of my articles have had changes made to the opening paragraphs but for the most part, I’ve been left alone.

Until now. I turned an article in last week and the editor called me Monday afternoon to let me know she…let’s see, how to phrase this? Oh, yes. She HATED the article. I don’t believe she actually used the word “hate” but she did tell me it was “unusable” the way it was. She wanted a feature article and felt I gave her more of a technical piece with “No heart. Nothing for readers to grab onto to.”

It’s difficult to hold a conversation where your work is being lambasted. What do you say? “Uh huh. Yes, I totally agree.” I mumbled my way through it and said I'd have the rewrite ready on Wednesday.

You’ve heard of Kubler-Ross’s 5 stages of grief from her book “On Death & Dying?” I’ve run the gamut in the last 48 hours. A summary:

1. Denial. I have less than 48 hours to pull off the rewrite of an article that took me over a week to write. I’d better get started. Except I can’t seem to stop shoving chocolate-chip ice cream down my throat as I watch “4 Weddings & A Funeral” – one of my many “comfort movies.”

2. Anger. Stupid woman. MY work unusable? Total bitch. Maybe I’ll call her back and tell her to shove her rewrite where the sun doesn’t shine.

3. Bargaining. Okay, I’ll do the rewrite. And it will be so good that this editor will call to apologize for ever momentarily doubting my obvious almost God-like talent. And please God, if you help me with this rewrite I promise I will never, ever procrastinate on an assignment ever again and will ONLY put forth my best effort on every project that comes my way, now and forever. Amen.

4. Depression. I consider running out to buy a paper to peruse the want ads as I’m clearly unfit for a writing career. I knew it was only a matter of time until I was discovered as a fraud. The problem isn’t that the editor is a bitch. It’s that I’m a total loser. I’m just upset with her because she was the one to see through to the truth…

5. Acceptance. After reviewing my original article, I have to admit, she’s right. It’s not a good piece. For reasons too long to go into here, I see now that I panicked myself into thinking I had to deliver this high-tech, quote filled, research filled piece. And it’s boring. She’s right to ask for a rewrite and when I think about it, she was pretty kind in how she went about it. Said she thought I was capable of better. The editor is my new best friend.

The stages didn’t just come, 1-2-3. I hopped around like a frog on drugs. I was angry, depressed, in denial, accepting, bargaining, angry again, a long stretch of depression…

But the work is done. I worked on the piece most of yesterday and was up at 4:30 am today, putting the final touches on it. It’s close to a total rewrite but I’m much happier with this piece and I hope the editor will be to. I’m kind of waiting with held breath to see if I get an e-mail saying, “Nice rewrite, thanks,” or “At least this one is almost useable.” (I'll take it.)

Until I hear, I’m going to take a nap.

Money, Time, & Nature Freaks

Blair and I were hiking at Hanging Rock State Park last weekend, describing our ideal days. Actually, we were talking about what our lives would be like if we were infinitely wealthy. I'm of the firm belief that you have to be able to "see" what you want if there is any hope for it to occur. It's why I'll never win the lotto: I just can't see that happening. But working hard and earning massive amounts of dough? That's within my reach.

So we're walking down this trail, chatting, and I asked Blair to describe his perfect day. He started by saying he'd rise early to make a pot of coffee and, given that we were at our cabin, he'd sip the coffee as he watched the sun rise, then would take our large dog for a walk through the woods. He'd come home, make breakfast for the two of us and we'd sit on the screened in porch and discuss our day.

Lovely. He added more details and finally got to lunch.

"Okay," I said. "That's the first part of your day. Now what does the afternoon look like?"

"Well, now I go to my part-time job," said Blair.

"We're infinitely wealthy," I reminded him. "Are you still working  a part-time job?"

"Yes."

"Okay, what is it?

Blair heaved a sigh. "I'm a park ranger."

Oh. My. God. I almost had to sit down in the path, I was laughing so hard. Just the way he said--like, "What can you do? This is my lot in life..." I was rolling.

"God, I can see it now," I said, wiping away tears. "We'll have to postpone our trip to Europe because you're scheduled to lead a bunch of kids on a nature walk."

"Nature is our friend," Blair reminded me.

I absolutely love it, more so because I think if we were infinitely wealthy there's a good chance he would be a park ranger. Just for fun.  And isn't that what life should be about anyway?

Cheers to all of you and the weird, funny dreams you cherish.

Wrap It Up

I don't know about the rest of you, but I've already started the mental planning to wrap my year up. Might as well be Christmas next week for where I am in my head. I've pulled out the calendar and looked at what projects I know I'll have due, mapped out timelines to have them completed, and am for the most part looking forward to winding down with a very slow fourth quarter. I feel like I worked like a maniac this summer--sometimes 30 hour weeks! (Ha ha--had to put that in there for the hubby!!) =) 

But I'm ready to pull back. I've felt it coming on for sometime and I'm ready to act on it. While I love my life and my work, I feel stagnant. I'm adept at what I do, but my writing isn't going anywhere. There's never time to fool around and be creative and explore new genres. So I'm making plans to ease back on the magazine and corporate writing and take some time to just... play. With words. No pressure to produce or publish. Just write because it's there.

This will involve a partial drawback from society. That part will be temporary, I'm sure. There are only so many days in a row I can stay at home and see and talk to no one. My "pay attention to me" meter quickly goes out of whack. But people are on my nerves at the moment. All of them--family, friends, clients, people in line ahead of me at CVS, ... I find myself muttering the word, "moron" just a little too often, telling me that it's not others who have the problem, it's me. Time to take a step back.

I've got a couple projects that will take me through to the end of the year. After that, who knows? It's one aspect of my working life that I absolutely love--I never know what I'll be doing a month from now.

Meanwhile, time is flying by. I guess I better work on getting that Christmas tree up, eh?

Cheers,

Dena

Remember The Pig Eyes??

Blair is working late tonight and I'm here at home, minding my own business. (Isn't that how all good stories start?) I settle in for some VH-1 "Remember the 70's." A happy show, recalling happy times. Until they lead off their tour of the year 1979 with scenes from friggin' AMITYVILLE HORROR!!!!!!

That movie freaked me out as a kid. And all it took was seeing those glowing eye windows and those spooky red pig eyes again to give me the heebie-jeebies. I turned off the TV and walked back to our bedroom, in the dark, and I hadn't yet pulled the blinds so the streetlight was glittering on our chandelier creating fake spooky pig eyes. Augh! If I see one dead fly, I'm calling the cops. Or spiritual cleanser. Whoever can get here the fastest.

What a great movie though. To this day you couldn't pay me to move into a house that has those spooky windows, even if no mass murder was recorded as ever having taken place there.  I bet the real estate value of any home with those windows plummeted after that movie came out.

Okay, I'm going to go read my happy David Sedaris book and not think about glowing swine eyes or basements filled with blood. Really, I'm not. I hope you won't either. Nighty-nite...