Wednesday, December 2, 2009


I would feel depressed if it were not for the story writing that I do in my spare time. I finished yet another chapter in my second (unpublished) novel and am engaged with the long tight rope act of rearranging the text so the chapters make sense in relation to one another and are not higgledy-piggledy thrown into the air to land on the page in a disordered heap. How's that for slant alliteration? This is an author who definitely needs a chamomile tisane and some sleep.

I have been picking up some writing and editing gigs but the work is sparse. I have almost given up the ghost in terms of being fully employed. I either do not have the requisite years that an employer demands or my rates are too high. Excuse me, but am I Methuselah? How old do you have to be and how much experience do you need before an employer will hire? My rates are not (too) much over standard market but I never cut a bargain because, dammit, I am worth every penny. My prose and editing, of any sort, kicks it like a can-can dancer. I am a meticulous and hardworking editor who does not stop until I have crossed and stabbed the last unholy and obnoxious “t” on the keyboard. Sigh. There are no jobs for the excellent.

Another cuppa, bartender....

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