|When not publishing Knitter's Review, I support my fiber habit by serving as a freelance writer for technical publications and high-tech firms. Normally it works out really well, but every once in a while I end up in a nasty, nasty spot. And that's what happened yesterday. Hence no blog.
I'm writing an advertorial (i.e. a print version of those God-awful Suzanne Somers infomercials) for a company, I'll call it Company X. I present a detailed outline to them. We go over their feedback, step by step. All in agreement, I retreat to my cave where I do my writing.
(Not a cave, actually, but a spacious studio with two big north-facing windows overlooking our blueberry fields, rolling hills, woods, and a lake...)
So I deliver the piece. And the next morning, boom. It's like someone put Pop Rocks and Coke in their toothpaste. They hate everything they see, they tear apart phrases that they themselves had added in the first place. Then they start hounding me by phone, and then getting other people to start hounding me.
I listen to their voicemails. The voices sound uptight, serious, urgent. And I look out my window and heave a heavy sigh on their behalf.
All these people are getting their trousers in a serious twist over what is, in the grand scheme of things, totally inconsequential. And that's why I left San Francisco, that fabulous career in high-tech publishing, that whole world.
And here's what I have now:
Sure, the nearest sushi restaurant is an hour's drive away. Maybe I'll just take up fishing instead.