When I was 14, one of my friends turned to me in French class and said, "Lisa, I'm so depressed. No guys like me because no guys ever ask me out."
Note the lack of discernment there - it's not as if she was lusting after the class hottie and waiting for him to ask for her number. She just wanted someone, anyone, to take notice of her.
That's exactly how I feel, as I sit behind my laptop today. I just want someone, anyone, to ask me to write for them. Of course I would be doing a dance of joy if that someone happened to be the editor of Vanity Fair or Intelligent Life, but quite honestly, I would go back to being SA's foremost taxidermy writer if it meant a cheque at the end of the month. (Yes, I used to be in hot demand amongst South Africa's taxidermists. As I always say, at one stage I had written so many stories about what makes a great mount that, if you passed me a warthog carcass, I would have been able to salt, stuff and mount it myself, with no danger of hairslip. Sadly, my months at a women's magazine means that this talent has fallen away somewhat - although I can now write endlessly about what to do when he doesn't phone.)
Speaking of which...having sent out gazillions of article pitches in the past month, I have that same "why isn't he phoning" feeling that used to settle in after the first date - except now, the 'he' I'm waiting for is an editor.
Something else familiar from my dating days: that feeling of fury and resentment when the phone beeps - but instead of being 'him', it is one of your friends. In this case, my little lift of excitement crashes every time I get an email - and, far from being an editor saying that I, and only I, can provide the insight, wit and originality their publication craves, it's Groupon. Offering a saving on travelling urine cups for women. (Because we all need one).
Sigh. Into the writing wilderness I go...
Note the lack of discernment there - it's not as if she was lusting after the class hottie and waiting for him to ask for her number. She just wanted someone, anyone, to take notice of her.
That's exactly how I feel, as I sit behind my laptop today. I just want someone, anyone, to ask me to write for them. Of course I would be doing a dance of joy if that someone happened to be the editor of Vanity Fair or Intelligent Life, but quite honestly, I would go back to being SA's foremost taxidermy writer if it meant a cheque at the end of the month. (Yes, I used to be in hot demand amongst South Africa's taxidermists. As I always say, at one stage I had written so many stories about what makes a great mount that, if you passed me a warthog carcass, I would have been able to salt, stuff and mount it myself, with no danger of hairslip. Sadly, my months at a women's magazine means that this talent has fallen away somewhat - although I can now write endlessly about what to do when he doesn't phone.)
Speaking of which...having sent out gazillions of article pitches in the past month, I have that same "why isn't he phoning" feeling that used to settle in after the first date - except now, the 'he' I'm waiting for is an editor.
Something else familiar from my dating days: that feeling of fury and resentment when the phone beeps - but instead of being 'him', it is one of your friends. In this case, my little lift of excitement crashes every time I get an email - and, far from being an editor saying that I, and only I, can provide the insight, wit and originality their publication craves, it's Groupon. Offering a saving on travelling urine cups for women. (Because we all need one).
Sigh. Into the writing wilderness I go...
