On writing

I ask myself all the time why I write for a living, because my process goes something like this:

Me: Sweet, I've got the interview all lined up. It's going to be awesome talking to her, she's so smart and talented. Shit, wait, she's so smart and talented, and she's going to think I'm an idiot. My questions are stupid. She's heard these a million times before. Her utter disdain will come arcing across the phone lines, and I will be paralyzed and stuttering with fear. Dammit.

[Interview happens.]

Me: Oh, man, that was awesome. She was so smart and talented, and I'm totally in awe of what she's done and what she's doing. She's killing it.

Me, slightly later: She's killing it, and I am a total loser. I can't write this. I can't do her justice. I'm the worst writer ever to commit words to the page. I should go hide in a cave.

Me, even later: Why am I a writer? I am not a writer, I am a sad, sad example of a human being, just waiting to be exposed as the awful, sorry excuse for a writer that I am.

[Writes the article.]

Me: I think that works! I'm only 200 words long. I am a writer!

[Waits for editorial feedback]

Me: I suck. I will never work again.

[Editorial feedback does not include the words "suck" or "utter embarrassment."]

Me: Slid that one by them!

[Assignment comes in.]

Me: I'd love to write that! It sounds fascinating.

Me, later: Why did I do this again?

Suffering succotash

I've said it before, but it bears repeating: I hate transcribing. Mostly because it's tedious, but also because I have to listen to my own voice. This is pretty much the worst, as I sound like Daffy Duck. (My high school English teacher pointed it out as my "sibilant s." She was not my favorite.)

In other news, this winter I discovered I also walk like a duck, as evidenced by my footprints in the snow. It's all part of the journey of self-discovery, people.

Always on my mind

These days, my upcoming wedding is pretty much on my mind all the time. I don't want to blog about it too much, because there's not much more boring than hearing some chick complain about choosing her "colors" or floral arrangements or linens -- most of that stuff bores me, and I'm the freaking bride here. That said, we're reaching the "threat level orange" stage of Jen's anxiety. I keep having the weirdest dreams -- some directly related to the wedding (like the one where I put on my wedding gown and it was see-through) and some not (I'll just leave it at dinosaur killer-robot buildings).

I did manage to pull something useful out of all this wedding worry, however: work. My awesome alumnae magazine published my essay on choosing a wedding gown -- the first essay I've had published! It's an accomplishment. It also snagged me this sweet-ass wedding-cake topper. I'm totally taking this lady everywhere with me and putting her in photos throughout the wedding, just like the traveling gnome. Don't say you weren't warned.

Just what we needed

Another way to track whether or not people are reading your meaningless drivel: Daypop Weblog Statistics.

I used to write notes (and then letters) to a friend of mine, and in every missive, I'd include the line "this note is totally meaningless." But they weren't -- each letter was a way to connect with him, to share a bit of myself in the hopes that I would get a bit of him in return. I've been thinking a lot today about what I write, why I write it, who I write it for. (I tend to think more when I want to work less.) I haven't come to any conclusions, so I think I'll check my blogstats again.