...and I'm already beginning to lose what little enthusiasm I had for it.
For that I can thank two of my clients, both of whom are back from nice, long paid holidays.
The first forwarded me a note from a reader wishing I -- that's me, personally, not one of his staff writers -- would do a particular story. I replied (to the editor) that I was up for the gig, and also wanted to do several other pieces we had discussed.
His return message was so tepid that I think tracking this particular story down would be a major waste of time and effort.
So why did he bother sending it to me? I don't know.
The second came from one of those who should have sent me a check or two already. It consisted of a "couple of questions" about a story I had foolishly assumed was already set to go to print before now.
Said "couple of questions" sent me into an hour-long search for information I have buried in old notebooks and magazine stashed in library cases. Things I considered too general -- or trivial -- to put in the finished piece now seem very important. At least to the editor.
Getting the meat into a story and cutting away the fat is supposed to be one of my major strengths. I told the editor (in the same message in which I answered the questions) that this was making me feel as if I was turning in my first item to a high-school newspaper.
Granted, I could take all this stuff much more in stride if I had a larger supply of spondulics in my bank account. Let's face it; gotta treat the customers right.
But when I am hoping for payments that will only help avert disaster -- as opposed, say, to having to delay the purchase of that big-screen TV everyone seems to need these days -- I am not in the mood to deal with this kind of stuff.
Didn't help that the messages arrived while I was almost into a rhythm with another difficult, fact-filled piece.
Now? I'm ready to just shut down and take a long, long nap. Six months of uninterrupted sleep will do, I think.
D'you think I'm being oversensitive? I suggest you come take my job...please.
5 hours ago