useless
TMPR

grinding noise, redux

It feels like someone is trying to jam a shrimp fork into my left eye. So take the following with a couple of aspirin. Long whiny posts almost always come back to bite me in the tuchas, but the constant throbbing (let's see how many google hits that phrase garners...) may be clouding my judgement.

Whinge the first: the circulation folk over at the local daily can't seem to figure out how to actually deliver a paper here. Not sure what the problem is. We live in the center of town on a level street. The few steps are almost always ice free. The neighbors get their paper with no problem. And yet every other morning, I have to call, whereupon I'm assured that one will be right out. This untruth used to calm me. Now I know that I'll have to call them again in the afternoon, whereupon I'll be assured that someone will look into it. I know no one is and it'll happen again in the next 72 hours.

Here's the thing--it's not the money. My investment in a having a paper delivered is small. The circulation people credit my account. I don't care about that. I just a) want the paper (for very loose definitions of "want." It's not like the Washington Post or anything, but it is the only game in town.) and b) want to not have to call constantly. I simply want customer service to provide, you know, service. Grrrrr.

Whinge the second: SUNY--Oneonta is just big enough to require parking permits, which are nicely sorted by Faculty, Commuters, Staff and such. The process for getting one of the permit stickers is long and form-filled. With some perseverance, I acquire a Faculty permit. But I can never find an actual spot to park in, simply because the campus cops never seem to ticket those who park without permits, who, of course, park in any damn spot they please. Again, not a huge thing--I certainly can use the exercise and the walk from the available spaces is brisk indeed--but it makes me wonder why I bothered actually getting a freaking permit in the first place. I could have used all of that time to do something useful, like harangue the underpaid newspaper delivery people.

Whinge the third: This whole trying to sell a book thing is just bringing me down. I know, I know, I'm lucky to have gotten this far and should just shut my yap and praise the stars. Call me ungrateful.

It's just so much like dating (which I sucked at, btw). My agent sends the pages/proposal out in the hopes that someone will love it. Every now and again they'll be a nibble, but the result has always been the same--I'd love you if you'd just change. Put on some Manolos. Tell more jokes. Cut the big words. And when I try to give these would be suitors what they want, then they reject me because I'm no longer authentic. Well, duh.

No one seems to want to love the authentic version, tho. So here I am, trying to stay true to myself while still being flashy enough to capture attention. I want to put a big sticker on my package--"Just get to know me. I know I don't look like much but you'll love me. I promise." But that's not what editors (and, by extension, readers) have time to do. I understand that. So I wait and hope and avoid despair as best I can.

And, yes, I know, it's just a book. It's not me. I, personally, am loved. But this book is me, too. It's not a story I can hide behind or within. The rejection of it stings more than if it were a piece for a magazine or a short story. It is me.

I dream of the day when I get the call. "It is beautiful," the voice will begin. "I love what it is, the way it moves in the twilight and stumbles toward redemption. It is not perfect, but flawed like people are flawed. I want to help you make this work stunning. And here is a very large check so that you can devote your time to nothing but this book."

Yeah, I like my dreamworld. Thanks for asking. Plus, here in my fantasy-land, the aspirin is actually doing its job.


Comments

I love the authentic Adrienne.

Aw. Thanks. And while I'd like to say that my current headache-free status has made me see the hopeful light o' day, it hasn't. Fwah. And still I go on, peddling my wares in search of someone who will embrace them, then pay me.

Wait...that doesn't sound right...

I ain't touchin' that one.

Er, the comment, I mean.

No, wait. Never mind - I'm about to dig myself a hole here.

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