It's like My Drunk Living Room. Which is not as exciting as My Drunk Kitchen because, well, my living room is a mess, Hannah Hart isn't here, and I'm actually not drunk. So... welcome to my living room! Where I'm sober! We'll be blogging about... um... let's see...
Okay, here's something. I am so solidly identified with being a writer -- a real, in the flesh, love to do it, do it often, let me tell ya a little sumthin about free verse and why it's awesome WRITER* -- that I am stunned I work with people who don't fervently claim the label as well.
* Imagine a lot of hyphens in that sentence. I'm lazy.
(As as writer, this post should be a lot more eloquent. As a writer who doesn't currently give a crap, it won't be.)
Being a writer is... it's what I do. If you asked me to label myself using three terms, the first ones that come to mind are writer, biracial, and gay. I don't claim other labels -- besides "sarcastic" -- as fiercely as I do these terms. They encompass who I am. They are the marrow of the bones that keep me standing.
(So. Deep.)
I guess I don't understand how someone can look at a job ad for writers and not get... I don't know... tingly? It's... well, it's like this. Despite my frustrations with Kata
I am so thrilled when my articles get published by blog owners that... I don't know. I reread them as though I hadn't written them. I relive the joy of research, learning something new, realizing I actually sound like I know what I'm talking about. I appreciate on a level I can't entirely explain that I have made a tangible contribution to Kata's success. It's like a new mom* who gets all misty over her baby as it learns to stand, walk, talk, feed itself, and eventually wreck her car. Wait.
* Mostly-brief tangent: Last night, one of my second cousins popped out a kid. Cuz is, like, 20. King V emailed me and said, "[Your uncles and aunts] are all great-grandparents. No pressure." I'm tempted to write back, "You're 67. That means you'll probably be dead soon. Been to Paris lately? No pressure." Seriously, it needs to stop. The best my folks are likely getting from me is grandcats. Look to thine son, King V. I'm sure Mack Daddy Smooth could snap his fingers and a woman dying to be impregnetated with his tadpole surprise would appear like that. What? That boy is a pimp.
I understand better now why other writers on the team are less affected than I am (at least they seem that way) when editors kick their articles back for rewrites. It's not personal and I know it's not but it feels that way. I dig into my work, write it, frame it, gild it -- whatever. It's mine and I'm proud. What do you mean you're only a writer between 8:00 a.m. and 6:00 p.m.? That's okay. That's fine. It's weird and against the laws of the universe, but you know... whatever.
I am learning to let go. As I mentioned in a previous rambletastic post, King V told me I need to care less and I ran with that this week. I still turned in articles I liked, but I told myself a few times to stop obsessing over something. Surprise -- my articles were still accepted by the editors, sent on to blog owners, and published. No tectonic plate shifting. No crying children. No fatal injuries because I took a breath and hit upload before I could spend half an hour unnecessarily changing words. It worked out pretty well.
Rewrites are often bullshit, by the way. I had one today because the blog owner wanted us to change the article title. Um. Do it. IT'S. YOUR. BLOG.
I'm kinda sorta trying to get one of the editors in trouble -- rightfully -- because he isn't doing his job. The rule is that if an editor can fix a problem in an article within 15 minutes that s/he is supposed to do it. If not, Rewrite. Earlier this week, the editor in question kicked one of my articles back for changes that took me five minutes to complete. I'm sure I spent 2.5 of them fuming.
I tattled. I made sure I told Tess that I wasn't trying to tattle or be a bitch but SERIOUSLY. Rewrites count against me. It's interesting that none of the editors I've spoken with seem to know that. Or, um, care.
Today I made some kind of semi-passive-aggressive comment to Mr. No-Fix-It about rewrites being like shards of glass in my eyeballs and he said, "I totally understand. If there is way for you (or any author...) to make a adjustments to a file once you uploaded without me (or an editor) having to hit rewrite, I'm totally up for it."
THERE IS. It's called Sk--
"I would gladly just Skype you and be like, "Hey, this little thing needs fixed, lemme know when you can get to it.."
Blood. Eyes. Shooting. Out.
The wheel. We keep reinventing it. It's round! It rolls! LET'S. MOVE. ON.
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Today I started learning about how to build a deck. Here's a tip: Hire someone to do it for you. Jesus Christ. I only made it through 1.5 videos sponsored-by-Lowes videos on YouTube before my brain was screaming, "THIS. INVOLVES. MATH. A LOT OF IT." There are levels and plum bobs (hee) and string and posts and permits and holy mother just go to someone else's house and stare at their pretty, pretty deck
If I'm feeling
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I have nothing on tap this weekend, save working for King V tomorrow. Sorry -- I mean "working." I think I'm going to tell him that he needs to pay me less. He's paying me my old account director salary for doing office work. As in "prepare this invoice" or "put a stamp on this thing," not "write a press release" or "direct the design on that annual report." I feel guilty. I don't like feeling guilty. The extra money was great when I was working part-time at Vox and getting a little unemployment but now I have a Real Job and... well. I don't know. The part of me that's still catching up on some bills is like "Shut your crazy mouth." And then the guilt circles back around like a... a... guilt python. Oof. Tight.
I'll also be cleaning out my car at some point because
Updated list: Writer, gay, biracial, and concupiscent.
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