12.19.08
Posted in Meh, Uncategorized at 1:39 pm by jeci
Stuff in the First
I have been getting, in increasing numbers and intensity, less than subtle hints that I’ve not been posting enough. This is true. I don’t know why. Except that it’s been a weird year, one in which I’ve been at once overwhelmed and underwhelmed and often didn’t know whether I wanted to write about my state of mind to begin with, and to end with, I didn’t know which state of mind to whine write about if I was to go ahead with writing. Anyway, my life has finally settled into a pleasant routine, and I have been at least thinking about writing here a lot more than I used to. And every now and again I actually sit down and do it. So, again, forgive me while I jerk through these…”getting back into it” posts until I (hopefully) get my groove back.
Stuff in the Second
Speaking of perpetually occupying at once opposite ends of the mental health spectrum, remember at my awful old job how we were all forced to “get our colours done” but it turned out to be less “team building exercise” than “scary clown nightmare?” IMAGINE MY DISMAY when I was informed by my new boss that all new employees have to get their colours done. (And, get this: it turns out there are NUMEROUS cults/companies that market this concept of ascribing colour wheels to Jungian personality archetypes. Am I the only person who finds this a little bizarre?) Anyway, the workshop to which I was sent this time was infinitely better than the last one, possibly due to being put on by a different cult/company. But then, how could it not be better, really? For starters, it was run by our HR lady, not some random, over-sharing loon. Also a bonus, our HR lady has a degree in psychology and she, at the very least, knows how to pronounce “Jung” correctly, lending more of an air of authenticity to the exercise. And, finally, when I once again came out as a 50:50 split between introvert/extrovert and hypersensitive thinker-feeler/adventurous, impulsive doer, instead of publicly scolding me for falling into paradigms not ascribed to by the colour cult and telling me I’m an impossibility, the HR lady responded kindly, pointing out that I’m normal, since, if nothing else, there’s no such thing as abnormal.
We also got detailed profiles this time and I’m sure those of you who have met me will be shocked to learn that I am XXXtremely social and tend to be chatty, bubbly, and silly…except for those times when I’m nursing my bleeding, pinko heart, and weeping over baby penguins who may or may not be suffering in Antarctica as we speak. And of course, after chatting us up about our “good day behaviours” (”Your fun-loving and warm and people want to be your friend!”) they douse a little salt in our “things we already know about ourselves but try to ignore so that we may go on” wounds by pointing out our “bad day behaviours.” APPARENTLY, I have little to no tolerance for boredom and when I’m angry or stressed, I’m sarcastic and cynical. To which I say: HA. As a colour wheel cult, you CLEARLY know EXACTLY what you’re talking about…Yawn. Is this thing over yet?
Finally, the other revelation of note was that everyone was given two personality profiles, one representing their work persona and one representing their home persona. Except for me. I only had one profile: work, home, SAME THING. BECAUSE I HAVE NO FILTER. The HR lady said this usually only happens when people are within a year or two of retirement because they stop caring. When I looked a little dismayed at this (it occurring to me for the first time that perhaps it really is obscenely misanthropic to say things like “mother of fuck” in front of your boss*), the HR lady waved me off and said warmly “It’s great! It means you’re very WYSIWYG! People always know where they stand with you.”
Which brings me to…
Final Stuff
It occurred to me after my last post that I may have given off a distasteful whiff of false modesty, the way I was all “Guess what Internets? I GOT PUBLISHED! YEAH! But as an afterthought I’ll tack on something about how I didn’t like one of my pieces so you don’t think I’m bragging.” Someone recently pointed out to me that false modesty (and its kissing cousin irreverence) are somewhat rampant in the blogosphere. There’s all those bloggers who are just clever and witty enough to pull off the (as my beloved Jenni G. so aptly put it when describing this phenomenon) “Oh I’m so silly, look at me posting another picture of myself in my bikini. WHAT AM I THINKING? Here’s one more though, with a better angle on my abs. I’m so embarrassed that everyone can see how much weight I’ve lost!” Um, suffice to say, I’m not one of these people (see above).
It’s doubtful, actually, whether lacking the capacity to filter myself makes me less of an obnoxious human being than the type of person who is at least aware enough of how off-putting immodesty can be to make a coy attempt to mask their bragging behind lowered eyelashes and coquettish self-mocking. Regardless, when I feel proud enough to brag about something, the words will come tumbling out of me of their own, completely unapologetic accord. It does occur to me from time to time that I should try and formulate some kind of diffuser to my “THIS IS HOW I FEEL AT THIS EXACT SECOND” function**, but it never fails to occur to me immediately on the heels of that thought that I lack the guile to seamlessly execute such an exercise and will inevitably make myself look like even MORE of an ass should I try. So, while on the one hand, I am glad and proud to possess a dependable amount of naturally occurring sincerity, on the other hand this could also speak to the fact that I can be something of a simpleton, incapable of carrying off the subtler nuances of the human condition as well as oblivious to the more sinister, dishonest aspects of these nuances, resulting in my being easily manipulated and sucked in by others.
So, suffice to say, the bit about not liking the piece (which was, may I remind you, AN OUTLINE), was true. It freaked me OUT, dudes. And I wasn’t just saying that to try and pretend like I didn’t bounce all over the apartment squealing about getting published like a bloody cockapoo on methamphetamines. Because I did that too.
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*It’s OK. My new boss is from New York City. She routinely busts out an emphatic “What da fuuuck?!?” while gesticulating wildly. My flair for obscenities is not only accepted, but appreciated.
**There are exceptions to this. If someone is unpredictabe (or predictably mean), I can be extremely repressive and blank-faced to a degree that is near pathological (XXXtreme poker face!). But, again, there’s no middle ground. Either I shut down entirely, or BLAH BLAH BLAH NO FILTER TRALALA WHEE!
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12.01.08
Posted in My Life Is Punctuated by Useless Bouts of Panic at 10:32 pm by jeci
First: Blogging dry spell continues unchecked. For a while, months ago whenever it was that this prolonged episode started, there was a reason. Namely, a number of competing deadlines that couldn’t be ignored, even by a seasoned procrastinator such as myself. Then it, the blogging, just…wasn’t anymore. I think it’s kind of like my laundry troubles: once upon a time there was a reason (fear of face stabbing) that prevented me from doing laundry; then that reason went away and here we are in 2008 and I have in-suite laundry, AND YET, just this weekend I found myself doing no less than 20 loads of laundry AND IT’S STILL NOT DONE. So I guess I am, more than anything, a creature of habit, and if my inner pendulum happens to swing towards not blogging or not doing laundry—OR WHAT HAVE YOU, I SUCK AT MANY THINGS OK?—it can take years to correct.
Unless I just start blogging…nnnnnnnnoooooow.
[cough] So! Let’s go back to that time I had competing deadlines. Funny story! I waited my whole entire life to get published and it finally happened. I raced home with several copies of, well, let’s call it Small Time Cycling Magazine, and giddily flipped to the tiny little piece I’d been asked to write on cycling in Québec and for one perfect moment I basked in the all-over glow of seeing something I’d written appear on the pages of a real magazine that is run by a real editor and printed on glossy paper and distributed to people not directly related to me and everything. I was (am!) a published writer. Something I wrote was published. And then I flipped the page over and discovered…something I did NOT write was ALSO published.
Yeah. How does something you didn’t write get published? THE THINGS I WANT TO SAY WOULD APPEAR IN ALL CAPS RIGHT NOW BUT…I fear the burning of bridges. So I will spare my commentary as much as possible and just give you the facts.
Shall we?
Yadda, yadda, yadda: My sister-in-law’s sister is somehow or other vaguely connected to the assistant editor of Small Time Cycling Magazine and kindly offered to put me in touch with the assistant editor of STCM, since I’d just returned from cycling across Canada and, you know, it seemed like a no-brainer. Next thing I know, my sister-in-law’s sister has emailed the assistant editor and has set us up on a phone date during which I’m expected to pitch some stories. Which: HA. HAHAHA. HA. Because I am a grown-up writer lady WHO KNOWS HOW TO DO THAT. [Proceeds to swallow tongue.]
My first order of business is to promise myself I won’t jam out of the story-pitching phone date with some lame excuse just because the idea is terrifying and, also, I don’t know how to do that. Pitch a story over the phone. Like…Peter Parker or…something. In fact, I’m not entirely sure to this date that pitching stories over the phone is really how it’s done ever, but that’s what the editor lady asked for and she would know what she’s looking for. Right?
My second order of business is to frantically comb the Writer’s Market for clues/rules of etiquette about pitching stories over the phone but there is NOTHING on this particular subject, in the Writer’s Market or anywhere. I am on my own. (See previously stated suspicion.)
My third order of business is to come up with some stories to pitch. Which: WHAT. “I Biked Across Canada: Do You Care?” “I Biked Across Canada But I Don’t Really Give a Tiny Rat’s Ass About Equipment: Do You Think Your Sponsors Will Care For That Angle?” Two hours before the phone date story pitch thing, I still had no story ideas to pitch, so I did the only thing left to do: I phoned one of my girlfriends and freaked out. Through the healing power of sarcasm and venting, we came up with some story ideas and before I could lose my nerve, I phoned the editor lady to pitch them.
And so commenced the most socially awkward experience of my professional life.
I don’t know how much I can write about that particular conversation but, um, it wasn’t…pleasant? I got very sweaty? I honestly considered cutting my losses and hanging up? So, long story short, no, (no!) they weren’t interested in a first-person account of cycling across Canada or cycling La Route Verte or cycling anywhere for that matter…WHICH about kills all I had to offer. Is now a good time to point out that one of the reasons I am a writer/editor type is because I cannot verbalize my thoughts so much with the talking and that and am not so much with the thinking on my feet either? Yeah. Anyhoo, the assistant editor goes on to tell me that they WOULD BE interested in a history of La Route Verte, and would I be interested in researching that and writing it? Of course I was. (Let’s be honest here readers: if they asked me to research and write a 1200 word piece on the merits of toilet paper, I would have done it. I wanted to get published. The end.) I asked if she wanted me to send her a query letter (because that is what the Writer’s Market says you do and who am I to disagree and have I mentioned that I’m floundering here?). She says that’s not necessary, but asks me to instead send her an outline of my piece once I’ve researched it. SURE. AN OUTLINE. OF COURSE.
Only…is that normal? To send an outline I mean? It seems a little…not like what anyone else has ever done for a magazine. That I know of. But then, what DO I know? And who am I to turn my nose up at an opportunity just because it seems a little ODD. So, I do the research. After fretting over how to format the outline (FOR GOD’S SAKE WHY AN OUTLINE? BECAUSE THAT IS ALSO NOT COVERED IN THE WRITER’S MARKET), I do one up in good old bullet points and send it off. Annnnd…I never hear back. I tactfully follow up at what seems to be a reasonable juncture and then, to my mixed relief and disappointment, I decide to let sleeping dogs lie.
Several months later, I get an email from the editor in chief of STCM. They are running a feature on La Route Verte and, while the feature piece is going to be a first-person account of cycling La Route (AHEM) and they no longer need me to develop the piece on La Route’s history, he is impressed by my research (yay!) and would like to use some of the bullets in my outline in a sidebar (credited to me) (double yay!). He’s also wondering if I would be interested in writing up a small piece about the man who founded the organization behind La Route. Which: OF COURSE I AM. And can I have it to them in five days? OF COURSE I CAN.*
And I do. I research. I go to the library. I Google. I make urgent phone calls to Québec. I dust off my French and wade through Québecois periodicals. And then I sit down at my MacBook all Carrie Bradshaw-like and I type out an article while occasionally gazing off into space. I feel like the piece is good. It’s nothing like I imagined my first published piece of work would be like, but I’m still proud. It’s tight and clean and I pulled it together quickly in manner of a real writer and no one needs to know that typing out “First publication rights” in the corner feels exactly like riding a roller coaster because you are THAT much of a newbie. I send it in (on time!) (of course!) and the response is positive. The editor in chief says, AND I QUOTE, “Why haven’t we heard of you before?”** Which: squee!
Fast forward several months to the moment where I have the STCM in my hands, marvelling at the fact that it is, in fact, a real magazine made of paper! With words printed on it! And there’s my piece! My words are printed on the paper! And…there’s the feature piece? Not so much the first-person account of cycling La Route written by someone who is not me (although that’s there too somewhere) but no. The feature piece is…is MY OUTLINE. With the bullets removed and no longer in list format. But still. AN OUTLINE. No, no…FLOW. No connecting words. NO WRITING. AN OUT. LINE.
I am horrified.
I scream.
I writhe face-down on the couch while Kieran confirms that I am not having a terrible nightmare wherein my lifelong dream of getting published is being marred by something that came barreling out of left field and blindsided me. No, this is real. Publicly real. In print.
Kieran finally manages to soothe me by pointing out that I should be proud that my outline…thing was chosen as the feature piece over the intended feature piece, even though that piece had been, well, written. I brighten and attempt to read my outline thing. How bad can it be if it was the chosen piece?
Annnd…I promptly resume writhing face-down on the couch. (I still haven’t read it. It makes my cheeks burn.)
So, now, readers. I have, somewhat inadvertently, two published pieces. One of which may or may not be categorically awful. I want to get published again. Often, even. (But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.) Riddle me this: do I a) refer only to the good piece in future queries and try to pretend the bad piece never happened (and hope that, somehow, editors do not have access to Google because for some reason the bad piece is ALL OVER Google) b) use both pieces, because two is always better than one or c) pretend neither piece happened and move on from the unnerving Google presence of the bad piece by starting over and going by my birth name and not my nickname in all future queries (I recognize that this is a little crazy and, yes, it’s the option I came up with while writhing on the couch). I know some of y’all have been published and are true freelance writer like types. Please advise.
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*In other words, getting published turns out to be pretty much exactly like losing your virginity. There’s all these expectations about perfection and glowing wonderfulness and waiting for the Right One, when in reality, it comes down to growing weary of languishing on the boring side of the equation and one day saying “Oh, sod it. Take it. TAKE IT. Somebody just TAKE IT. We’ll make it pretty on the 300th try.” (And, Hi there, Dad! Great Aunt Margaret.)
**Oh, just a small matter of raging neuroses preventing me from making too much of an effort to do that of which I’ve always dreamed. Tralala.
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