I’m losing my ability to write. Yep, I said it. I’m having a crisis.
Remember that initial meeting I had with David? And how I got my first assignment? Well, all of that was fine and dandy. At first. My assignment was to go to a new bakery, get an interview, set up a photo shoot, and write a short story. The day after I got the assignment, I went to the bakery and did everything I was supposed to. I was pretty much done with the assignment 4 days in advance! Go me!
Wednesday was my deadline, at 3 p.m., but I read over my story one more time, and sent it around 9 a.m. I have a knack for meeting deadlines with time to spare. Thursday, I received yet another freelance story for a different magazine, that was due Friday, so I was busy with that and hardly noticed that I never heard back from David.
I tend to freak my shit when I don’t hear from people—in dating and in my professional life. But I tried to keep a steady head, and think, if he needs to contact me about the article, then he will. But when I didn’t hear back from him Friday, I figured I should double-check and make sure he got the story to begin with.
I’m sure you know where this is headed. I SENT IT TO THE WRONG FUCKING E-MAIL.
How? How does this happen, you ask? Because I’m a fucking idiot, that’s how. Of course, David’s e-mail contains oddly placed underscores, like this:
I forgot that last underscore. And yes, I got a failure notice, IN MY SPAM BOX, which doesn’t show up on my brackberry, therefore, I never fucking saw it.
So I did the only thing I knew to do—send him the most unprofessional e-mail ever at 9 a.m. Friday. “Ummm FUCK. I SENT THIS TO THE WRONG EMAIL HERE IT IS DON’T HATE ME.”
He, of course, didn’t believe (even though I forwarded him the original threads with the wrong address) since we’d talked through e-mail before. I completely understood, apologized, and he said he would run my article, just later since I missed the deadline. So I figured I was in the clear, I just really needed to get my shit together and make sure my next stories were in on time.
In an effort to suck up, I promised him I would be at the Sunday night writer’s meeting. Naturally, the magazine office is on the other side of the city, and I didn’t want to put on actual clothes to get there, but I did. And when I showed up, the meeting had already started.
OF COURSE IT HAD!
“Uh, I’m sorry, am I late??” I asked.
“Well, I don’t know, but that’s okay, Lucky, grab a seat,” David said.
Thankfully, I was okay from then on, came prepared with story ideas, and walked away with two assignments. “Okay,” I thought. “This is my second chance to kick some ass.”
So Monday, on my day off of work, I decided to get a jump start on one of my articles. It required me to drive 20 minutes out of the city to get a face-to-face interview.
While it sounds simple, I need you to know something. I hate going to get interviews. Once I get there, I enjoy myself, and I like hearing people’s stories, but I’ve never ever wanted to be a reporter. And that’s what I feel like when I go to these interviews.
I call my interviewee when I leave my place and tell them I’m on the way. An hour later, I arrived. That’s right, a FUCKING HOUR later! I couldn’t find this damn place to save my life, I wanted to cry, I was terrified this guy was going to say “Nope, you know what? Fuck you and this damn magazine, I waited for you all day.” Thankfully, he didn’t, I got what I needed and am done with assignment #1 a week before it’s due.
I know you, and most of my friends, are wondering why in the hell I give a shit. Why does it matter if I impress this guy or write for his lame magazine? Truth be told: my ego has taken a huge hit. Ego is a huge thing for a writer, you need it, but sometimes it can really bite you in the kuca.
To make a career as a writer, just like most, you have to pay your dues and shovel shit. Which I’m fine with. But I’m starting to feel like I’ve been shoveling shit for too long, now. The real problem is, there is still shit to be shoveled. My stories aren’t perfect, I’m lazy with interviews, and I can’t pitch a pair of boots to an eskimo.
And it took a douche in a Jesus belt buckle to show me that.
Some of you know I just finished writing my first book. Now, I’m shopping for an agent. While that sounds like a barrel of fun, I’m starting to question myself—am I really good enough?
Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill myself. I’m going to kick ass at this next deadline and we’ll see what happens. In the meantime, I’m halfway through detox and FUCK could I use a glass of red.