Today's news is already old news. I missed a chance to write about famous photographers for About.com. I'm mostly relieved, but also disappointed in myself. I dragged it out until my time ran out. Because really, I don't want to spend every free minute writing innerweb non-content for extremely low wages.
But then, a part of me thinks that maybe I still don't get how this works: I have to spend years writing in anonymity working minimum wage jobs and drinking myself into cyrrhosis of the liver, then I will sell one essay. Then, years later, I will have a nervous breakdown in a garret somewhere, and sell two more essays. I will spend most of the next decade trying to pay my grouchy landlord in flash fiction and haikus and getting into fistfights with other passionate authors.
It's not the fault of the universe (who makes up these rules) that I waited until I was nearly 40 to get my shit together. Maybe I will sell an essay when I am 52, if all this fast living--like staying up past 10--doesn't take me down first.
I blogged today at work, and I did not submit an essay for a job. I was optimistic for about 25 minutes, and they felt great. I also finished a sleeveless sweater, which I will write about on small hands tomorrow. And I completely forgot to note that I submitted a story idea to a favorite girly mag of mine last week. Fingers crossed.