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May. 21st, 2002
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I just got Porlocked.
May. 21st, 2002 12:44 pmWriting going well, things flowing from brain to screen as they tend to do when I'm in a grove.
Then the phone rings. Now, the only reason I answer it is because I'm expecting a call back from my insurance company. Otherwise, people can speak to the Message Center.
It isn't the insurance people, or Kirsten. It's TimeLife Music.
We used to order CDs through them until it became to much of a financial drain. I tried to explain to the guy that, short of being in labor, he picked the worst possible moment to call me, but he was eager and dense. I hate just hanging up on these folks because I know they are working at slave wages and don't need me slamming the phone in their ear. But finally I practically screamed "I'm a writer who is weeks past a deadline, and I CAN'T AFFORD ANY FUCKING CDS RIGHT NOW!! What part of this has failed to penetrate???" Before he could reply, I killed the connection, and turned back to the computer.
And saw nothing but gibberish. Where I had been writing clean prose, now I couldn't string two sentences together on "My Trip To The Zoo." I moved around, trying different chapters, and got *nothing.*
Goddamn them. I have never regretted my inability to get screaming drunk without dying more than right now. The bastard cost me a day's work.
Like hell will they ever get another dime out of me.
Then the phone rings. Now, the only reason I answer it is because I'm expecting a call back from my insurance company. Otherwise, people can speak to the Message Center.
It isn't the insurance people, or Kirsten. It's TimeLife Music.
We used to order CDs through them until it became to much of a financial drain. I tried to explain to the guy that, short of being in labor, he picked the worst possible moment to call me, but he was eager and dense. I hate just hanging up on these folks because I know they are working at slave wages and don't need me slamming the phone in their ear. But finally I practically screamed "I'm a writer who is weeks past a deadline, and I CAN'T AFFORD ANY FUCKING CDS RIGHT NOW!! What part of this has failed to penetrate???" Before he could reply, I killed the connection, and turned back to the computer.
And saw nothing but gibberish. Where I had been writing clean prose, now I couldn't string two sentences together on "My Trip To The Zoo." I moved around, trying different chapters, and got *nothing.*
Goddamn them. I have never regretted my inability to get screaming drunk without dying more than right now. The bastard cost me a day's work.
Like hell will they ever get another dime out of me.
