(Work stuff to get off of my chest, boring, not funny, read at your own risk or skip to the end. Thankyouverymuch.)
Tom Petty, the ugliest guy in rock and roll sang the words truest to life. The waiting is the hardest part. I hope one of these days to grow more patient because I hate spazzing out all of the time. There really is no sense in getting your panties in a bunch over something you have no control over, right?
Every single freelance job requires some amount of wait time. Every contact with every agent, requires the same. The book, the freelance work all sit waiting to be picked up by just the right person, publication or company. It's hard to keep plugging along sometimes. Days go by where I get so sick of waiting that I completely lose sight and wonder what the fuck it is I am doing.
Home Fires was a newspaper column long before it was a blog. While waiting for my book to get picked up by an agent, I thought it would be a good idea to seek a large syndicate to represent the newspaper edition, which is a milder version of what you read here. (excluding this stupid shit you are reading now) Like the rest, there is waiting involved.
Out of frustration, I e-mailed my buddy Scott the other day. He has a syndicated cartoon that's been running for 16 years with the same place I sent my last syndication query letter to. I asked him how long it takes the syndicate to respond. He said he wasn't sure but for him it was "two solid months, but that was 16 years ago."
Two months doesn't seem like a very long time, until I stare at the calendar and count days. It's been six weeks since the submission, so I have to just keep my shorts on. But there's this little goofy thing that popped into my head while I was absorbing this waiting game.
Postage. I realized at that moment, I sent hundreds of items to hundreds of publications. With each submission, I've included a self-addressed-stamped envelope. And guess what? Postage went up two cents between my sending them and now. So my stupid ass head ponders all sorts of things. "Do I need to make contact again? Should I send two-cent stamps all over the free world to make up the difference?"
Shit. Most of what I've submitted is on my laptop. The one that was jolted by lightning last week. I couldn't even guess where I'd need to begin a second attempt at contacting those people. So I just have to wait and hope for the best. The way-yay-ting is the hardest part.
Good vibes patrol, can you hear me? My sister Mary (41 yr. old with blood clot in her aorta) is going in for surgery Monday. You know the drill.
Remember the bath crayons story from a few days ago? William suggested I draw eyes on the wall as if someone is looking at my kids and husband in the shower. I did, but when I didn't hear any reaction from Lane 2 while she was showering, I thought the oversized eyes went unnoticed. Late that night I took my shower and saw the eyeballs I drew were covered with a crayon-drawn blindfold.
Jamie Dawn, who started this whole thing, suggested that I write, "Don't pee in the shower." I did, but again I heard no verbal reaction. After Lane 1's shower, I looked in the shower to see if there was a new message, and sure enough, it said, "Does that mean crapping is okay?"
Just know now that if ever I find a poop ball in my bathroom outside of toilet limits, I am sending the guilty party to live with my pal Jamie Dawn.