Long, Long Day

Three different stories of mine were rejected yesterday. I opened the mail to find three self-addressed, stamped envelopes in which I found scraps of colored paper on which teeny tiny script detailed the vague regrets of a nameless editor. In one instance the mini-missive was signed "Editor."

Another editor, one with a name and my home phone number, called last Thursday with promises of an assignment, many assignments, really, and who promised to call with more details as soon as possible. I looked at the phone many times yesterday. No calls. None at all. 

Another editor has held one of my stories for two months now. No idea when it will run. I wonder if there's a problem with it, but there seems to be no way to ask. Sometimes that happens. Sometimes a story is liked, but not well liked. Sort of a "Death of a Salesman" thing. In that case the editors hold it until they have no choice but to run it. They bought it, and paid for it, but don't seem inclined to run it. And the people I interviewed hang in limbo with me. What a yummy feeling that is.

Larry has revealed that he has a medical situation that may require surgery, and our healthcare goes away at the end of the month. 

The long-awaited book contract has yet to arrive. Yesterday we co-authors got a note from our agent saying, "I'm going to call and check on this." To which my co-author responded, "Was it all a dream?" Don't even say it, buddy.

A chapter of a different book I'm editing was sent off to the author last week and has come back with a screaming note about how I've ruined his text. He insists, "This must be fixed." Yet another author is fuming because I changed his subheads. Subheads! No joke.

In all the hours of the day, I didn't do any of my own writing. Not one word. That's a failing all its own.