let me get up on it
The Lab's few regular readers may know that I sent a testy email to TNS a week or two ago in response to their announcement they're hiring; testy, not for anything to do with TNS really, but because it was probably the two hundredth letter I'd written to some news outlet asking for a job. So, this time I decided to try telling someone to give me a job. I guess you could say they just happen to be somewhat-innocent bystanders.
But all indications right now are that that's me fucked once again. A shame, really, because not only is writing all I've ever really wanted to do, it's the only thing I can do sorta-kinda-good: I joke sometimes that Doctor Who influenced my life to the point where I've come to trying to emulate him in the real - you know, travel around to different places, have adventures with female companions, save the world - but really, it's not too far off the mark.
Unfortunately, I'm a little too bourgeoisie to go strictly freelance - I'm not talented enough to put out the kind of copy I can just go and sell to someone, and I'm always worrying about toothaches and genital warts and sick cats to go by the seat of my pants like that (yet one more reason to consider universal health care - think of your poor old Dex and his writer hustle). And I always thought that the freelancing was just the first act, and that like John Constantine, with enough clips I could buy my way into heaven (this reached an anti-climax two years ago when I applied to the New Times, which puts out the Westword weekly here, for a fellowship for new writers - writers, "who, through no fault of their own, don't have enough experience." I received a very polite letter back telling me that I didn't qualify because I don't have enough experience). But the first act's been ten years long now, and I find that it doesn't mix with grad school - what does? - and it sounds like I'm lying when I tell people I'm a freelance writer, and it's not like anyone gives a fuck anyway.
Ahh...well, now that that's off my chest maybe I can finally start enjoying spring break. And it can always be worse, much worse. Right, Bar?
Right - why waste our beautiful minds on all that? Anywho, that's enough (public) self-pity for today. Back to regularly scheduled bitching and moaning.
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