...the day met -- almost exceeded -- my worst expectations.
All the running-around stuff went, well, okay. Among other things, I had to find a photo location for an article. In Orange County, California, that's damn near impossible. Whatever minuscule patches of ground aren't paved over or covered with hideous pseudo-Spanish houses and shopping malls are fenced off. Or the owners want "fees" for letting us shoot that are higher than the total amount the photog and I will make from the work. Fooey.
Finally found a good place, but it took five hours, not counting the round-trip between here and O.C., plus a lot of phone-tag when I got back.
When I got home, I almost felt good, though. There was a package of new magazines waiting for me. This is something I've never tired of: that first moment when I see something I've written in print, bound between covers.
Until now, anyway. There was nothing wrong with the article; it was as-written, was given plenty of prominence (not to mention eight pages of space) and even used (among many others) a photo that appeared right here a few months back.
But there was no check. Not from this magazine or the other two that are pretty deeply in hock to me.
That took all the pleasure out of it. I came damn close to pitching the stupid things into the bin. I may still do that.
I did get an email from one of the three editors which said, in essence, "gosh, the girl who makes out the checks messed up and somehow yours didn't get done with everyone else's. Sorry."
Yeah. Like I can pay my rent with an email saying there will be a check.
I'm getting sick of this. No, it's beyond that.
55 minutes ago