I’m chatty of late. But I need something to do, to stop my fidgety widgety. I also want to avoid cleaning house and take my mind off the creepy feeling I get when my piece (stop it) is back in the hands of an editor, after corrections. Know that almost unbearable feeling of exposure when someone is looking at you and you know it, without looking? Your hair stands on end, dead fingers lightly trace your spine. Worse, when you feel someone looking at you but when you turn there’s NO ONE THERE…
And I write for the Chicago Tribune? Children, let this be a lesson. Keep bothering people and, eventually, something good will come your way. Or, every editor in the world will get so sick and pale with grief that thou, her plague, art far better published, so you’ll shut the fuck up and leave her alone.
If I publish this will you stop? Yes? It will run on Sunday. TAKE YOUR DAMN CHECK, BITCH!
Judging from the debilitating cringing feeling I’m suffering today, I don’t know how I’ve had anything published. Writing short, snappy reviews for Library Journal and Booklist takes lots of time but is so formulaic it doesn’t feel nearly as personal (nice English!). Right now I’m suffering such paranoia, which I guess is natural taking such a big leap from professional reviewing to a byline in the third biggest newspaper in the country. OHJESUS. Maybe I should be more cringy about my old windbag blog and unfortunate habit of over sharing. You’d think, but no. Writing a review for a MAJOR NATIONAL NEWSPAPER is much, much worse. Much worse partially because I play free and easy (would you quit?) with grammar rules here and have to sit up straight when someone’s paying me. I don’t like the Oxford comma for instance. The, Oxford, comma, for, instance. if it were up to me thered be no punctuation hell why stop there screwthedamnspacesbetweenwordstoo
Look at the depths to which I’ve been reduced. Gee, thanks, Chicago Tribune. Thanks for RUINING MY LIFE!
Oh, hell. I really have to get back to work. No one should have to see the place like it is. We’re probably in violation of several village codes and maybe I can keep us out of jail if I pick up a little, wipe off a bit of dust. Because they’re watching me, the village. (If not the village, my goddamned PRESIDENT.) I can sense it…
THERE IS NO ONE THERE…