Can't decide what I have to say that anyone in blogworld would care to read, even a sister. But you will be pleased to hear that I’m going to pass on sharing petty whinings. Those should be saved for a personal journal where overemphasis on fear, pain and the “waa, waa” of trouble is acceptable, and which also, thankfully, goes unread by an audience at large.
So I’ll tell you this instead... I went to work today, if that’s of any interest. I find I like to have a job that I actually go to here and there to lend validity to my work ethic. It gives me a sense (however misguided) of stability. So, yes, I went to work today. Tomorrow I will work on media projects. Two of which are for actual clients. Yes, I have clients. Whatever small semblance of validity this part of what I do gives to my work ethic matters little really, because it is what I enjoy. What I would love is paying video clients. See, if I could get this aspect of my freelance work to pay off a little more often, then petty whinings would need not spill over to any journal. OK, I really don’t even vent to my personal journal much anymore. I sort of took a stand against whiny journaling because I found it horribly boring to reread. And I like to reread my journals, so I like to write things that I find interesting. So I prefer to write about observations from my life of how I see God in the everyday things around me. That can be fascinating.
Well, since there will be no whining, and I have no video project to share the status of, I will tell all of you, my blog readership, that I sent out four writing submissions last week. If my calculations are correct, and I’m pretty sure they are, I should be receiving my rejection notices, on schedule, as early as tomorrow. Most of these places don’t waste any time sending the notice back. I think they poise themselves with the rejection slip ready as the mailman hits the up button on their elevator downstairs. As he enters the office door, they snatch your manilla envelope from the stack, shove their cruel notice into the self-addressed, stamped envelope you've stupidly provided for this dirty deed, and they do it at precisely the same moment as they open the packet you’ve sent. Without batting an eye, they get the envelope licked and back in the mailman's hand before he exits the room. Amazing talent. It takes deft hands to do this all at once; but then, these people are pros. It’s someone’s sole calling in life to open mail and return rejections at lightning speed. They probably train from childhood preparing for the rejection notice olympics. Maybe trophies and plaques line the walls honoring the rejection notice gold, silver and bronze medalists. I guess you might say I am not prone to believing they ever even read the cover letter. I had one rejection come back so fast it was as if they had sent a courier to intercept my mail halfway, say in North Carolina, so they could yank the return envelope out and slap my rejection back in my face so fast I’d never bother them again. Ha! But bother I did. And bother I will. They don’t know what a bother I can be. (sinister laugh)
Actually, it would be a more accurate picture to imagine me as one who sits moping, chin in my hands, staring down at my toes, hoping that one day, maybe one day, someone will choose me... and then... (sounds of me choking up) I won’t have to be...(sniff) a blogspot... wallflower... any... more. (Full soap opera sob, complete with quivering lip).
Just kidding. I may be a wallflower but I sort of like it. And I submit to the rejection process, well, because I can, and... because... ya just never know.