...as in yeah, I was going to write an entry, despite ever-deepening depression. I thought it might be therapeutic or, at least, informative in case anyone cares about my descent into yet another level of Hell.
PARENTHETICAL YES-I'M-BITTER THOUGHT: I know people care. Really. But the past few days, in which I've faced the demons alone, have not been good for my sense of perspective. About anything.
But I received an email at about 9:17 tonight that threw my plans off. It was the finished layout for a story I did rush-rush for my newest client. "Please check it over to see that everything's okay," the editor wrote. "And while you're at it, will you please write cutlines [captions] for the photos?"
He did the same thing last week. And, in fact, he emailed me with a really off-the-wall request for information to fit into yet another story I've written for his magazine that took a good chunk of time to chase down. These "favors" turn out to be freebies; we have no agreement about such things, and I can't reach him at this hour to negotiate.
Well, I wrote the cutlines, and now my brain is essentially worthless. Captions are, in a sense, miniature articles; in 40-60 words (the size left in the layout) they have to explain things not necessarily found in the main text. For me, they are harder than the original stories.
Damn, I hate this "just one more thing" stuff. It's often difficult for me to ask for -- much less get -- one thing; asking two things (or more) seems somehow excessive.
I suppose it's good for the image. As in, I have an image of having the work "sucker" tattooed on my forehead.
Pay no attention. I'm tired, dispirited and angry.
I'm going to bed.
And, oh, yeah: I had to inform the editor he put someone else's name on the article's byline. The ultimate insult.
21 hours ago