Paralyzed by guiltstrictly editorial

February 15, 2007

She wrote in December, for the first time since the encyclopedia. Developmental editing, she said, she thought she remembered that I did developmental editing. She had a project in mind. Would I send along an updated resume? I replied, promptly, if you must know. Weeks went by. She apologized for the delay and proceeded to ask about copyediting, quite serious about taking me on, preferably yesterday. After several weeks, I replied, apologizing for the delay. Does the Press have any flexibility on rates, I asked. One doesn't rush with responses like that. One can't figure out how to ask politely yet professionally yet firmly. Weeks went by again. Fortunately, I hadn't held my breath.

An email just rolled it. It's from her. She has apologized yet again for the delay. The snow, apparently, is high in Syracuse. No dice, she says, about the idea of project rates, but still hopes to hear from me.

I need to answer. I have no idea what to say. No. I know what to say, I simply have no idea how to say it. Ah. Not so either. I know exactly what to say and have several ideas on how to say it. I do not have time to mess with it, however, not right now. Hmm. Let's put it this way. I don't want to mess with it right now. There we go.

I foresee a year of Scarlett moments, one right after another. I must find a carrot and shake it at the sky. No, not a carrot. That's muddled. It's the taxes. Or Ashley. That's it. Ashley doesn't love me. But I don't love Ashley. I love Rhett (even if it has taken me a while to figure that out). But Rhett doesn't love me. He used to, dreadfully. I look up, teary eyed ...

I'll think about it tomorrow. At Tara.