I love writing books.
I hate freelancing.
Just got off the phone with an editor. Submitted the piece eons ago; took forever to hear back. He tells me he needs his new changes in a few days.
I used to get excited by freelance opportunities, just I used to get excited by an exclusive interview with Michael Tucker. Now, I dread it. I need the income, and will always work hard/write hard. But the lack of empathy among editors is often startling. Plus, it takes f-o-r-e-v-e-r to get paid.
I’m mainly mad because, half a year ago, I wrote a freelance story for a major magazine about my brother’s battles with Asperger’s syndrome. My brother and I had never spoken about it before, but he was willing to do this. We talked and talked and talked, and the piece is probably my all-time favorite. It opened up my guarded sibling … brought me closer to him. I bled the article. Truly bled it.
So what happens? I never hear back. And never hear back. And never hear back. And never hear back. Then I heard back with some suggested edits. Made the changes, and never heard back, and never heard back, and never heard back.
It’s OK, it’s only my brother; slicing a vein. Don’t worry about me.