thorvalson.net : babble ether

"If you can't be on time, at least try to be FUNNY about it."

Okay, so I've made mention of this little tidbit in the blog before, but I've never really told the whole story of what's going on. And now, it's time. Why? Because I need help, that's why. Professional help.

Greg and I have had several conversations as of late about our profession (he's a bit higher up on the ladder to say the least, but fundamentally, we do the same thing), and more specifically, the fact that what I do can be considered a "profession," and myself, a "professional." This all came up after a drunken confession on my part that (gee, go figure) I didn't end up where I thought I'd be, professionally, at this stage in my life, and a bunch of sappy yapping about how naive Sixteen Year Old Me was to think that, ELEVEN YEARS FROM THEN, I wouldn't STILL, yes indeed, be waitressing. Oh, young Grasshopper. You have so much to learn.

Greg's argument, after listening to me whine and Woe Is Me for half an hour, bless his big squishy heart, was that I should take pride in what I do. If not for the notion of "serving" itself and how many karma points I have racked up in the universe for all the times I brought some cranky bitch her 5th martini and replied, "Thank you!" with a smile! after suffering her abuse for two hours, then simply for the length of time I've spent in this profession. Not too many 27 year olds can say that they've worked in the same industry for 13 years already (to my knowledge. Please stand up and say "YO!" if you can say the same).

From that conversation, I learned a thing or two. One, that Greg really is right a lot of the time and I should shut my gaping yakhole, and Two, that I Am a Pro, Dammit! It makes perfect sense to me that, after 14 years in the service industry, I should be considered a Professional. If I were in any other industry that requires a button-front shirt, I would be called a "professional" almost instantaneously, not necessarily because of my experience, but by virtue of my cleanly pressed slacks and coordinating purse and shoes. Not only that, but anyone who has worked in the service industry knows it is a thankless one, and if you're looking for some kind of recognition for what you do, you're going to have to give it to yourself. In this case, I have chosen to henceforth think of myself as a professional. Because I am. And because it makes me feel a lot better about the fact that, in a mere four hours, the entirety of my flesh will be coated with a semi-permeable layer of grease and cigarette smoke. Tomorrow morning, I will wake up coughing up the remnants of my lungs - but hey! It's in the name of SERVICE, and when it comes to service, I Am A Professional. Watch that Karmameter ding and flash and spin like Vegas, baby. Go ahead. Be a cranky bitch. I just earned me a sparkling new stereo system.

Having this new, firm grasp on my re-definition of myself as a "professional" has also given me a clear sense of what I am not professional at. For the purposes of this entry, that is writing. I have a whole laundry list of other things I am equally unprofessional at - including laundry - but we'll save those for a later session.

As you can see from this very entry, I occasionally shrug off the fundamental rules of sentence structure, rebelliously tapping out phrases where no subject is named, or worse, using parentheticals where the simple - but so underrated - comma would suffice (oh, comma, how we doth worship thee; let your light shine forever and ever, amen). While it may be true that I've been scribbling nonsense for about the same amount of time I've been waitressing, I do not extend the title to this area of my experience. The main reason for this is that, no matter how many times my mommy and my boyfriend have told me - needless to say, they're completely biased - they enjoy this puddle of poo I call "writing," I have never, in my life, had a PROFESSIONAL writer who DOES NOT KNOW ME PERSONALLY tell me that what I'm doing isn't entirely, well, a puddle of poo. I did well in college. My professors enjoyed my writing, and told me so. This was encouraging, but taken with a grain of salt because, truth be told, I didn't particularly care for their academic style. To me, writing is an art form. Unless you're simply passing along reported information, you should have a voice. An individual voice. And if that voice means you say FUCK a lot, or don't always follow the rules, then Yay! for you. Do it. Not so in Academia, so fuck 'em.

Getting back to the point: I do not consider myself a professional writer.

A few months ago, I made contact with the Editor in Chief of a well-respected local monthly publication. To make a long story short (ha!), I basically had this insane notion one morning, post-massive coffee consumption, that I can actually write, and furthermore, that someone else should read it. Despite knowing better, I still have this little question mark over my own blogging. Are they really out there? They are - You are! Hi, You! - and I know it. Scarily Big Brother-ish enough, I even know what browser you're using. Even so, that little voice of doubt still says, No one's really reading this garbage. It's just a bunch of computers, magically operating on their own, and they happened to randomly, TOTALLY BY CHANCE, breeze past your web address after Googling the phrase "shit fuck ass". That's all.

So I had this synaptical misfire one morning, emailed Ms. Editor in Chief, and she actually got back to me. I told her, straight out, that I have absolutely no professional experience whatsoever, and that all I have to back up this insane "I Can Write!" idea is a blog and a trunk full of teen angst-ridden journals from 1991 (excerpt: Mr. Haydn is so weird. I think he's got a rubber chicken up his butt). Did I mention I'm off my meds? LET'S WORK TOGETHER!

We meet in person, totally hit it off - she knows G, we're both music fans, both moms - and she gives me a "feature article". Great! Fantastic! I was hoping for, like, 300 words in a corner somewhere printed almost illegibly underneath a big splashy advertisement for midget porn phone lines. Something that could easily be glanced right past. But, no! She gives me a feature! Okay! This is good!

For a perfectionist, however, this means PRESSURE. My God, I've done it. I have tricked my way into the Real World, and the Real World wants me there. WHAT DO I DO NOW?! It's a very similar feeling to when I registered Maddie for school and was shocked with the sudden revelation that, for the first time, I was in an administrative office and WASN'T IN TROUBLE.

So I got a feature article. Went online, looked at previous feature articles to get a feel for the magazine's expectations, did some research, started brainstorming and sketching out a rough draft. I call Ms. EiC, and she invites me to their monthly staff meeting, which is doubling as her birthday party, and yes, there will be beer, and yes, I should drink some.

Rock on! I'm there.

I go to the meeting, and there are spreadsheets. I don't think I've ever used the word "spreadsheet" in my life. But there it was, in my hand. A spreadsheet. Looking up at me and declaring its presence. On that spreadsheet, there are boxes. Little boxes with words in them. The first column has words like, "Feature Story", "We the People", and "Cover Story." In another column, there are people's names, and the names of their respective articles.

I proceed acquainting myself with this colorful new addition of format to my schedule, and in the process, am struck with the absence of my suggested article and name in the "Feature Story" row of boxes. Okay, maybe we're pushing for August. That's cool. Gives me more time. I continue scanning, and when I get to the "Cover Story" row, my eyes follow the boxes to the "Article" column.

"(EiC's idea) or Blogs."

Blogs? That's MY article! What is my little blurb doing in the "Cover Story" row?!

Trying to mask my concern, and not wanting to call attention to my rookie self in a room full of strangers whom I perceive to be "real writers", I put my best Listening Face on while my brain goes HJU3IT^G5EAR22E^W?SU(SSSS?????????

Ms. EiC, leading the meeting and trying to take care of business so we can get on with the drinking already, reads out the "Cover Story" row and addresses me.

"I was thinking of doing (her idea, which I am, in the interest of being PROFESSIONAL - there's that word again - keeping confidential until press time) for July, and your blog article would be in August. Is that okay with you?"

Who, me? Uh... yeah... Yes! Yes, if that works for you!

Granted, when she introduced me - very kindly, I might add - to everyone at the beginning of the meeting, she introduced me as "Stephanie Thorvalson. She'll be writing a cover story on blogs." The words "cover story" did not go unnoticed as they bounced around my ears, however, I thought that surely it was a slip of the tongue. She meant "feature story", right?

WRONG.

So there you have it. I left the meeting, went straight to G's place, and told him, "You know who you're sleeping with? You're sleeping with August's Cover Story."

Remember a while back, WAAAAAY up there in the beginning of this self-absorbed, overly concerned, pretentious pile of frayed, raw nerves, when I said something about feeling a bit of PRESSURE?

Yeah. That just got multiplied by a thousand.

And by the way, if you're reading this, Ms. EiC, thank you again. If I never write another article for you or anyone else, if you throw me out of your office with a kick in the ass and a bottle thrown at my head, I will forever be grateful for your leap of faith in me.

Posted by stephanie at June 3, 2005 02:29 PM