Hi. I came back.
I'm sorry, I went about this all wrong. I was sad when I wrote that last post, sad for almost the entire day from when "Amelia" said, "People skills? Tell that to Lily!" It was so unnecessary, so unrelated, such a low blow. To read me reasoning out something like law school and pounce on the fact that I say I have people skills and use it to hurt my feelings, to bring up something so painful. I stayed sad about Lily all day--I'm sad about her for part of every day. I'm sad in the grocery store when I see havarti dill cheese because I think about the afternoon she made havarti dill sandwiches at her apartment in Brooklyn, all the little things like that she loves; I'm sad when I put on chapstick because sha always had a tube of cherry chapstick in her pocket. It's so unkind and unneccesary to try to make me feel sad about Lily. And to say I don't have people skills because of the unexpected and frankly devastating dissolution of a seven-year friendship during one of the hardest times in my life. From the old regulars I treat warmly at Starbucks even when I don't feel like it to the models from the Midwest that I made feel comfortable on the sets at FHM shoots to the soldiers in whose living rooms I sat and to whom I listened as they talked about the Iraq war, yeah, I think I have some motherfucking people skills.
But I wasn't just sad about that. I was sad that the haters had taken all the fun out of blogging. Their voices absolutely choke out the joy it used to be to write about my days, who I met, what I saw and heard. There are people who lurk and read these posts just waiting to find something about which they can be unkind under weak pseudonyms. It used to be so much fun, and it used to make me a better writer. Now I'm an infrequent blogger, so able, as I am, to see where I might be attacked if I tell this story or share that joy. There is plenty to attack about me as there would be about anyone who made themselves such an easy target as I do. But I don't want to stop blogging.
Pigeon in the Sun was a wonderful experiment in openness and it was, as I said, Wonderful, Mostly. But I'd like to start a new, anonymous blog, one that potential employers and former classmates and whoever these lurking jerks are won't find just by googling my name.
So if you're a friendly reader, please write me and I'll send you the URL and put your email address in so you have access and we'll do this again, right. I still want to write for JAG and Redcane and Bessie and Martin and Sparks and Carlos and a whole slew of wonderful people who have made me so glad I did Pigeon in the Sun. There'll be no more anonymous or pseudonymous commenting, and I won't have to wince when I write something that made me joyful for fear someone would suck the joy right out of it with their cruelty. This is an important forum for me and I love it. I don't want to give it up because a few people are cowardly and mean. I want this to be fun.
You know where to find me. I hope you're doing beautifully, and that you had as restful and joyful a Saturday as I did. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go write about it.
Love,
Pigeon
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Friday, October 5, 2007
PITS Turns Three / Wonderful, Mostly
My beloveds,
Without my realizing it, Pigeon in the Sun had a birthday on September 27, its third. It's been a good three years. I've made several strong friends and a few enemies and a few more frienemies. PITS has lasted almost as long as my relationship with Atticus. I started it as a way to keep telling Mom about my life after I moved to New York with Atticus, during a time when she and I weren't talking so well. Now Mom and I talk about everything. I had just shaved my head; now it pulls back to a teensie ponytail like the Dread Pirate Roberts's. FHM has closed, as have both of the places I used to read my work in New York. Bruno and I are thick as thieves. And on and on.
Today's an anniversary, actually: exactly a year ago, I left New York. I was supposed to go home for a month but... well. You know; you were there.
You were there for all of it. The mean ones of you, too, the people whose voices I heard in my head so often louder than the kind ones. As I wrote I anticipated your response. I imagined what unkind things you would make of what I said. I'm doing it now, thinking of you mocking this. That's probably half the reason I'm putting PITS in a notebook and turning my attention to new projects.
But the other half is that I'm just ready to go quiet for a while. Become an expert on something other than my own inner/outer monologue and all the attending hopes and fears. I never thought PITS would turn into "a thing" but it's been a huge thing in my life. Huge. It made me a better writer, a braver one. It let me find good people I never would have connected with. It's been wonderful, mostly.
But I think three years is a good run for an intimate experiment. The blog will be up for a while as I copy it to hard drive so Bruno and JAG, please come out and have a good spat for old times' sake. And anybody who want to write me can, as always, at emily dot deprang at gmail dot com.
The Universe will end with not a bang, but a whimper, I'm told. I don't feel like it's a whimper. I know I'll continue this conversation with several people off the blog. I just have the feeling like I did after the rest of the class would leave the room and sometimes the teacher shut off the lights while I was still writing, and told me to shut the door when I was done. It's not sad. It's just... time.
Okay, yes, I feel like I'm putting a pet to sleep. I feel the classroom thing but also sad. I do think it's time, though. I do want a little more mental quiet, and to commence some other three-year project.
So, you know where to find me. Thank you, for everything.
XO
TK
The Pigeon
Without my realizing it, Pigeon in the Sun had a birthday on September 27, its third. It's been a good three years. I've made several strong friends and a few enemies and a few more frienemies. PITS has lasted almost as long as my relationship with Atticus. I started it as a way to keep telling Mom about my life after I moved to New York with Atticus, during a time when she and I weren't talking so well. Now Mom and I talk about everything. I had just shaved my head; now it pulls back to a teensie ponytail like the Dread Pirate Roberts's. FHM has closed, as have both of the places I used to read my work in New York. Bruno and I are thick as thieves. And on and on.
Today's an anniversary, actually: exactly a year ago, I left New York. I was supposed to go home for a month but... well. You know; you were there.
You were there for all of it. The mean ones of you, too, the people whose voices I heard in my head so often louder than the kind ones. As I wrote I anticipated your response. I imagined what unkind things you would make of what I said. I'm doing it now, thinking of you mocking this. That's probably half the reason I'm putting PITS in a notebook and turning my attention to new projects.
But the other half is that I'm just ready to go quiet for a while. Become an expert on something other than my own inner/outer monologue and all the attending hopes and fears. I never thought PITS would turn into "a thing" but it's been a huge thing in my life. Huge. It made me a better writer, a braver one. It let me find good people I never would have connected with. It's been wonderful, mostly.
But I think three years is a good run for an intimate experiment. The blog will be up for a while as I copy it to hard drive so Bruno and JAG, please come out and have a good spat for old times' sake. And anybody who want to write me can, as always, at emily dot deprang at gmail dot com.
The Universe will end with not a bang, but a whimper, I'm told. I don't feel like it's a whimper. I know I'll continue this conversation with several people off the blog. I just have the feeling like I did after the rest of the class would leave the room and sometimes the teacher shut off the lights while I was still writing, and told me to shut the door when I was done. It's not sad. It's just... time.
Okay, yes, I feel like I'm putting a pet to sleep. I feel the classroom thing but also sad. I do think it's time, though. I do want a little more mental quiet, and to commence some other three-year project.
So, you know where to find me. Thank you, for everything.
XO
TK
The Pigeon
State of the Union
Ooh, I suck. Last post September 19? Lame.
Anyway. Good morning! Today marks two weeks I've been in the apartment with Jeffrey, and two weeks without internet, so that's part of my excuse. The other part is that for the last month I've been very heavily into an idea which I can share with you now that it's safely past.
One of my attributes of which my friends and family are least fond is my tendency to try on ideas very thoroughly before discarding them. When I'm tired of something about the present, I'll make a 180 degree turn and truly investigate some alternative before returning to a modified version of where I started from. What I learn from this turn informs more incremental changes I make when I get back from it. But generalities aside:
For the last month, I've been contemplating going to law school. I saw it as a way to make a living and a difference while using my language and people skills. I was thrilled at the prospect of writing something (a brief) about some issue (a case) and getting a definitive Yes or No about whether I was successful. In journalism, at my best, I do a decent job of presenting some issue and can only hope somebody else does something about it. My work is as a medium through which the energy and information that sparks change might pass. Might. Miiiiiiiight. If I'm lucky. And if my work does make a difference, odds are good I won't know about it. It's frustrating. I want my work to be good for something other than a clip and a paycheck. I want it to do something. It seemed if I were working in public interest law my chances of seeing real positive consequences of my efforts would be greater. That was a tortured sentence but you know what I mean. Even the best journalists, even the NPR and New York Times guys can only hope someone else brings the case to trial and wins it, or funds the nonprofit or proposes the legislation. Ann Garrels puts her life on the line to compassionately report from someone else's hell every day for Morning Edition, but she can't stop the violence she writes about. Modest as my work is, I can already taste that futility. It's not futile, of course; it's important, and Ann Garrels is making a huge difference by even bringing those stories to the ears of people who can make a difference. No, before that-- just by giving a voice to the people who are suffering. It's grandiose language, I know, but I do think it matters to someone that they be heard, and it certainly matters that there even be the possibility for someone to make positive change, which they can't if they don't know about a problem. But it is frustrating to me not to know what even my hypothetical best future work might do. Accepting that not knowing is part of the job.
Another part of the job that I've been sick of is that it is a job. I need to make money from writing not only to continue to prove to myself that I wasn't kidding when I announced in fifth grade that I was going to be a writer, but moreover to subsidize the extremely modest living I make as a barista. And why am I a barista instead of, oh, anything that pays a living wage? Because the week before last I had a story due for the Observer and I needed an extra day to do field work (going to Superfund sites-- whoopee!!) and finish writing (start writing). Because I work at Starbucks, all I had to do was make a few calls and switch some shifts. Boom, free days. There's no limit on how much I can do that. And even with that flexibility, I still get excellent benefits including prescription benefits which is pretty important to me considering that I take $500 worth of pills every month just to stay sane. I pay a tenth of that for them. God bless Starbucks.
A friend of mine said recently that I'm just fucking around and wasting time, but I'm actually doing, and have been doing, the best I know how to do. But back to the thought experiment: law school.
Law represented a chance to see concrete changes as a result of my work, to do good work for a steady paycheck, and to get another shot at school. I never applied myself in school. I can think of two classes I actually worked at, and both of them were for Dr. John Trimble because he is the bomb and he totally deserved my respect and best work. Because I was such a little snot and busy be passionately interested in extracurricular things, I never found out whether I could be a 4.0 student if I really tried. I went to UT Austin because they offered me a scholarship before I even thought about applying. That meant I was pretty sure I could get in. Plus, Austin was cool, so why not? In my secret heart, I longed to attend this badass little liberal arts college in Oregon called Reed, but I didn't have the guts to apply. I couldn't stand the idea of being rejected. I didn't apply. If I'd gone to Reed, I wouldn't have met Atticus, and Lord knows what the last nine years would have held. The thought of going to law school excited me so much; the chance to see what I'm capable of if I apply myself, to see what rank I could actually hold. I don't remember studying for a single test. I couldn't get away with that in law school, that's for damn sure. It felt like a second chance.
It also would have given me the ability to say I was doing something other than working at Starbucks and writing an article every other month. That sounds pretty shabby if it's all you're up to, but if you add, "And I'm going to law school next year," oh, suddenly you're back in the got-her-shit-together club. I've never actually been in that club, but I've heard about it, and that the food in the meetings is great and nobody has cat hair all over her shirt.
But for all the fantasies it would hypothetically fulfill, law school was never about practicing law. When I thought about doing the job, I never pictured a court room. I pictured myself talking with someone in dire straits and then passionately writing on their behalf. What does that sound like? My kind of journalism.
Plus I don't have $100,000 and my credit is so good I can't even get a bank account. (Looks down, picks cat hair off her shirt.) So yeah. I'm not going to law school. But I had to debate about it, think about it, talk about it, take two practice LSATs, apply for jobs as a paralegal (not one phone call), pick my schools, find out my undergraduate GPA (3.19), buy and then return a black Calvin Klein suit (whatever, it was on sale for $100) and start on my personal statement to decide I wasn't actually going to go. The personal statement is what ended it. For two days, I walked around writing it in my head. But no matter how I arranged the facts, what I emphasized or omitted, whatever narrative I applied to it, I couldn't get it to stop sounding like I was just not a potentially awesome lawyer but a frustrated journalist. Which is what I am. Frustrated mostly with myself.
In my descent to reality, I survey what I've brought with me from my hypothetical trip to law school. One, my brain wants to be learning more, doing more, being more challenged. That's easily fixed with books and maybe a night class at Rice's continuing education program. Or pitching and writing more challenging articles. Two, I want to know my own capabilities, so I ought to be pushing myself out of my comfort zone in my writing. Three, I want somebody to tell me what work to do and then tell me I'm good when I do it. Unfortunately something I'm unlikely to get from the freelance world, so I'm going to have to do a better job of being my own task-master and head-patter. Four, I would like a steady paycheck. This is a little trickier, since I truly do need some flexibility to keep freelancing at all, and there simply are not desirable magazine staff jobs in Houston (I've really looked). I can either create more writing work for myself, which will probably not be steady but will be income, or I can give up Starbucks and take a real job with real pay and try to keep writing anyway. We'll come back to this. Five, I would like to see the difference I make. Then I should volunteer somewhere, give some of my money to a charity, and keep my work focused on advocacy. Six, I would like to sound like someone who's got her shit together. This one, I'll just have to get over. My shit is more together than it's ever been, and lots of times that my life sounded awesome it was actually a really unsatisfying struggle. Yeah, there's lots of room for improvement, but nothing I've done because it made me seem cool has ever come to any good.
So I'm back, it's 8 a.m. Friday morning, and I have another story to do for the Observer along with edits on the Superfund one. I need to write a new last sentence for the Bitch piece and Houston Public Radio is doing an essay series I'd like to submit to. It was a nice mental vacation, but it's time to get to work.
I hope you're well.
xo,
Pigeon, Esq.
Anyway. Good morning! Today marks two weeks I've been in the apartment with Jeffrey, and two weeks without internet, so that's part of my excuse. The other part is that for the last month I've been very heavily into an idea which I can share with you now that it's safely past.
One of my attributes of which my friends and family are least fond is my tendency to try on ideas very thoroughly before discarding them. When I'm tired of something about the present, I'll make a 180 degree turn and truly investigate some alternative before returning to a modified version of where I started from. What I learn from this turn informs more incremental changes I make when I get back from it. But generalities aside:
For the last month, I've been contemplating going to law school. I saw it as a way to make a living and a difference while using my language and people skills. I was thrilled at the prospect of writing something (a brief) about some issue (a case) and getting a definitive Yes or No about whether I was successful. In journalism, at my best, I do a decent job of presenting some issue and can only hope somebody else does something about it. My work is as a medium through which the energy and information that sparks change might pass. Might. Miiiiiiiight. If I'm lucky. And if my work does make a difference, odds are good I won't know about it. It's frustrating. I want my work to be good for something other than a clip and a paycheck. I want it to do something. It seemed if I were working in public interest law my chances of seeing real positive consequences of my efforts would be greater. That was a tortured sentence but you know what I mean. Even the best journalists, even the NPR and New York Times guys can only hope someone else brings the case to trial and wins it, or funds the nonprofit or proposes the legislation. Ann Garrels puts her life on the line to compassionately report from someone else's hell every day for Morning Edition, but she can't stop the violence she writes about. Modest as my work is, I can already taste that futility. It's not futile, of course; it's important, and Ann Garrels is making a huge difference by even bringing those stories to the ears of people who can make a difference. No, before that-- just by giving a voice to the people who are suffering. It's grandiose language, I know, but I do think it matters to someone that they be heard, and it certainly matters that there even be the possibility for someone to make positive change, which they can't if they don't know about a problem. But it is frustrating to me not to know what even my hypothetical best future work might do. Accepting that not knowing is part of the job.
Another part of the job that I've been sick of is that it is a job. I need to make money from writing not only to continue to prove to myself that I wasn't kidding when I announced in fifth grade that I was going to be a writer, but moreover to subsidize the extremely modest living I make as a barista. And why am I a barista instead of, oh, anything that pays a living wage? Because the week before last I had a story due for the Observer and I needed an extra day to do field work (going to Superfund sites-- whoopee!!) and finish writing (start writing). Because I work at Starbucks, all I had to do was make a few calls and switch some shifts. Boom, free days. There's no limit on how much I can do that. And even with that flexibility, I still get excellent benefits including prescription benefits which is pretty important to me considering that I take $500 worth of pills every month just to stay sane. I pay a tenth of that for them. God bless Starbucks.
A friend of mine said recently that I'm just fucking around and wasting time, but I'm actually doing, and have been doing, the best I know how to do. But back to the thought experiment: law school.
Law represented a chance to see concrete changes as a result of my work, to do good work for a steady paycheck, and to get another shot at school. I never applied myself in school. I can think of two classes I actually worked at, and both of them were for Dr. John Trimble because he is the bomb and he totally deserved my respect and best work. Because I was such a little snot and busy be passionately interested in extracurricular things, I never found out whether I could be a 4.0 student if I really tried. I went to UT Austin because they offered me a scholarship before I even thought about applying. That meant I was pretty sure I could get in. Plus, Austin was cool, so why not? In my secret heart, I longed to attend this badass little liberal arts college in Oregon called Reed, but I didn't have the guts to apply. I couldn't stand the idea of being rejected. I didn't apply. If I'd gone to Reed, I wouldn't have met Atticus, and Lord knows what the last nine years would have held. The thought of going to law school excited me so much; the chance to see what I'm capable of if I apply myself, to see what rank I could actually hold. I don't remember studying for a single test. I couldn't get away with that in law school, that's for damn sure. It felt like a second chance.
It also would have given me the ability to say I was doing something other than working at Starbucks and writing an article every other month. That sounds pretty shabby if it's all you're up to, but if you add, "And I'm going to law school next year," oh, suddenly you're back in the got-her-shit-together club. I've never actually been in that club, but I've heard about it, and that the food in the meetings is great and nobody has cat hair all over her shirt.
But for all the fantasies it would hypothetically fulfill, law school was never about practicing law. When I thought about doing the job, I never pictured a court room. I pictured myself talking with someone in dire straits and then passionately writing on their behalf. What does that sound like? My kind of journalism.
Plus I don't have $100,000 and my credit is so good I can't even get a bank account. (Looks down, picks cat hair off her shirt.) So yeah. I'm not going to law school. But I had to debate about it, think about it, talk about it, take two practice LSATs, apply for jobs as a paralegal (not one phone call), pick my schools, find out my undergraduate GPA (3.19), buy and then return a black Calvin Klein suit (whatever, it was on sale for $100) and start on my personal statement to decide I wasn't actually going to go. The personal statement is what ended it. For two days, I walked around writing it in my head. But no matter how I arranged the facts, what I emphasized or omitted, whatever narrative I applied to it, I couldn't get it to stop sounding like I was just not a potentially awesome lawyer but a frustrated journalist. Which is what I am. Frustrated mostly with myself.
In my descent to reality, I survey what I've brought with me from my hypothetical trip to law school. One, my brain wants to be learning more, doing more, being more challenged. That's easily fixed with books and maybe a night class at Rice's continuing education program. Or pitching and writing more challenging articles. Two, I want to know my own capabilities, so I ought to be pushing myself out of my comfort zone in my writing. Three, I want somebody to tell me what work to do and then tell me I'm good when I do it. Unfortunately something I'm unlikely to get from the freelance world, so I'm going to have to do a better job of being my own task-master and head-patter. Four, I would like a steady paycheck. This is a little trickier, since I truly do need some flexibility to keep freelancing at all, and there simply are not desirable magazine staff jobs in Houston (I've really looked). I can either create more writing work for myself, which will probably not be steady but will be income, or I can give up Starbucks and take a real job with real pay and try to keep writing anyway. We'll come back to this. Five, I would like to see the difference I make. Then I should volunteer somewhere, give some of my money to a charity, and keep my work focused on advocacy. Six, I would like to sound like someone who's got her shit together. This one, I'll just have to get over. My shit is more together than it's ever been, and lots of times that my life sounded awesome it was actually a really unsatisfying struggle. Yeah, there's lots of room for improvement, but nothing I've done because it made me seem cool has ever come to any good.
So I'm back, it's 8 a.m. Friday morning, and I have another story to do for the Observer along with edits on the Superfund one. I need to write a new last sentence for the Bitch piece and Houston Public Radio is doing an essay series I'd like to submit to. It was a nice mental vacation, but it's time to get to work.
I hope you're well.
xo,
Pigeon, Esq.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Mattress Shopping
I'd really hate for this blog to devolve into my posting bad stand-up like riffs on airline food, but...
Omigod. I'm shopping for a mattress, and besides costing roughly what my car did (thinking about combination car-mattress Transformer-like...) they also have the stupidest names in the history of the world.
Camille and I long ago started a game that came to be called The Lakes of Highland Glen. I think I've mentioned it. I can't see your face so I can't tell what face you're making.
Omigod, I just hit something on Jeffrey's keyboard and activated World of Warcraft. I'm worried.
Anyway. Lakes of Highland Glen is a subdivision in Pearland, and is not near a highland, a lake (there is a retention pond they dug, so...) and they dozed the glen to build the houses. They just liked the ring of it. So we're in the car and she says "Look, it's the Lakes of Highland Glen," and I said, "Isn't that near the Lakes of Highland Glen Falls?" And she's like, "No, you're thinking of the Lakes of Highland Glen Falls Meadow," and I'm like, "Yeah, the Sunset Lakes of Highland Glen Falls Meadow," and we go on until we can't remember what we're talking about anymore.
We do it with churches too. There's a church called Harvest of Praise Exalted that ends up being First Holy Mary's Reformed Arms of Jesus Christ Lord Heavenly Harvest of Praise Exalted Worship Community Sanctified Church of God Almighty, Pearland.
But you can't really play the game with mattresses. Because they start out with names like:
Simmons Beautyrest World Class Prague Visco Latex Firm Super Pillow Top
I'm sorry, PRAGUE???? They just stuck Prague in there.
How about the Serta Perfect Sleeper International Touch Tjugotre Split Queen Foundation II?
International Touch = name of a business advertised in the back section of the Houston Press
Tjugotre = the number 23 in Swedish. Think I'm kidding? LOOK IT UP.
These people are fucking insane. I want a job like that. I'd write a formula.
Brand name + complimentary descriptive term + more exotic term + incomprehensible or nonsensical term + upsetting term + size + faintly related term + roman numeral= mattress name
So maybe the Sealy Gentle Slumber Primo Tetrachromonad Prostrate King Muffleplex VII.
Maybe.
I'll keep you updated.
In other news, we found a Dumpster kitten with one ear markedly bigger than the other, completely black with green eyes, who wants to purr and sleep on your face. whom Rhodes hates of course, who cries constantly if you're not petting him. He reminds me of a Newsie. So of course he would be a Mewsie. From the mewsical, Mewsies.
Also, I maaaaaaaaaaaaaay go to law school. You may mock me now. "Before or after you finish your book?" The answer to which would be, "Before."
Again, posted. The mewsie is named Toby.
Hope you're good. Mwa.
P
Omigod. I'm shopping for a mattress, and besides costing roughly what my car did (thinking about combination car-mattress Transformer-like...) they also have the stupidest names in the history of the world.
Camille and I long ago started a game that came to be called The Lakes of Highland Glen. I think I've mentioned it. I can't see your face so I can't tell what face you're making.
Omigod, I just hit something on Jeffrey's keyboard and activated World of Warcraft. I'm worried.
Anyway. Lakes of Highland Glen is a subdivision in Pearland, and is not near a highland, a lake (there is a retention pond they dug, so...) and they dozed the glen to build the houses. They just liked the ring of it. So we're in the car and she says "Look, it's the Lakes of Highland Glen," and I said, "Isn't that near the Lakes of Highland Glen Falls?" And she's like, "No, you're thinking of the Lakes of Highland Glen Falls Meadow," and I'm like, "Yeah, the Sunset Lakes of Highland Glen Falls Meadow," and we go on until we can't remember what we're talking about anymore.
We do it with churches too. There's a church called Harvest of Praise Exalted that ends up being First Holy Mary's Reformed Arms of Jesus Christ Lord Heavenly Harvest of Praise Exalted Worship Community Sanctified Church of God Almighty, Pearland.
But you can't really play the game with mattresses. Because they start out with names like:
Simmons Beautyrest World Class Prague Visco Latex Firm Super Pillow Top
I'm sorry, PRAGUE???? They just stuck Prague in there.
How about the Serta Perfect Sleeper International Touch Tjugotre Split Queen Foundation II?
International Touch = name of a business advertised in the back section of the Houston Press
Tjugotre = the number 23 in Swedish. Think I'm kidding? LOOK IT UP.
These people are fucking insane. I want a job like that. I'd write a formula.
Brand name + complimentary descriptive term + more exotic term + incomprehensible or nonsensical term + upsetting term + size + faintly related term + roman numeral= mattress name
So maybe the Sealy Gentle Slumber Primo Tetrachromonad Prostrate King Muffleplex VII.
Maybe.
I'll keep you updated.
In other news, we found a Dumpster kitten with one ear markedly bigger than the other, completely black with green eyes, who wants to purr and sleep on your face. whom Rhodes hates of course, who cries constantly if you're not petting him. He reminds me of a Newsie. So of course he would be a Mewsie. From the mewsical, Mewsies.
Also, I maaaaaaaaaaaaaay go to law school. You may mock me now. "Before or after you finish your book?" The answer to which would be, "Before."
Again, posted. The mewsie is named Toby.
Hope you're good. Mwa.
P
Friday, September 7, 2007
Do You Know What This Is?
This is Bitch Magazine. Tagline: a feminist response to pop culture. This magazine has existed for ten years and I have known about it and loved it and longed to be a part of it for eight of those years. Back in college, I submitted one really well-thought-out but, in retrospect, overly academic pitch to them. They wrote me a very sweet and personal, "This is good, but it's not quite for us, but you should submit again," response. Then I got all foamy and lobbed off another totally unprofessional piece of nothing one day and got back an appropriately dismissive, "No thanks," with an implied deletion of the "thanks" part. I hadn't done my homework--I just wanted to get in--which totally showed. I was wasting the editor's time, not showing respect for the magazine. So I got dissed, rightly.
Didn't submit again 'til last week. Saw something in Marie Claire that made my blood boil, and I thought, "This is so something that Bitch would cover." So I wrote them a ditty on it that was tailored to an existing section, rewrote and scrutinized three times, and sent it. Today, I got this, from founding badass Andi Zeisler:
***
hi Emily,
Thanks for this great rant. We're definitely interested in running it in the upcoming issue of Bitch. If you can send me your mailing address, I'll get a writer's agreement in the mail.
best,
Andi Zeisler
***
Friday rules!
xo
P
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
We Got A Scanner!
Expect a lot more visuals. Example, I can show you this adorable print I found. I hate the word adorable; I tried to use other words. It stuck.
Woo, pics!
XO!
P!
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