IT Goes to Show

The following is a dramatic interpretation of an actual email conversation.

ME: And that’s my problem.

IT: Have you tried turning it off and turning it back on?

ME: Yes, I have.

IT: Okay, but have you tried turning it off and then turning it back on again?

ME: That is literally the first thing I tried.

IT: Most software glitches can be solved by turning it off and then turning it back on again.

ME: That’s why I tried it first.

IT: Have you tried this thing I may have mentioned in passing once maybe a month ago?

ME: Okay, I’m trying it now, but I can’t seem to get it to do that thing.

IT: It will work if you do that thing.

ME: Look, I will send you screenshots. It is impossible for me to do that thing. See?

IT: Yep, this is complete unrelated to that thing. I don’t know why you’re doing that thing at all. Try this other thing I’ve never told you about before.

ME: It worked. Thank you.

IT: You should have started with that.

Who You Love

Everyday YouTube sends me a video it thinks I will enjoy, and 19 times out of 20, it’s wrong. But lately, it’s been drowning me in “Chibnall is KILLING the Doctor Who franchise” types of videos, and the very titles foul my mood.

Here’s the thing about them, though, that I think unsettles me the most. You can’t tell them that if they hate it so much, stop watching, because in their minds, they’re the true fans. They have in their heads this ideal of Doctor Who that’s so shining and specific and beloved and perfect that anything that strays from that must be protested. They think they’re helping by demanding that Doctor Who be only its best. And of course there’s all the raging misogyny behind it, cleverly disguised by focusing their attacks on “bad writing” and Chris Chibnall.

In general, I’m the type of person who stops watching a show when I stop enjoying it, so this attitude is a little too masochistic and narcissistic for me, though I did continue to watch Doctor Who through the Moffat years, despite the fact that I wasn’t enjoying the show as a whole anymore. I hung on because I was open to the good moments and the performances, of which there were many, and I wouldn’t dream of demanding my favorite show’s cancellation. Stephen Moffat wouldn’t be showrunner forever.

I started watching Doctor Who during the Tom Baker years. If I decided that this was the only way the show could possibly be, I’d be one miserable tool right now. And that’s what they are, miserable and impossible to please, and meanwhile, we’re here as the Doctor Who Fans Who Actually Like the Show, and we’re having a great time watching a show we love. If this was a contest, we’d be winning.

Workin’ for the Man Every Night and Day

This morning, I accepted the position of Editorial Associate for Blood Journal at the American Society of Hematology, starting Monday, March 16. I’ve been looking in earnest for work since the end of January 2019, so this comes as a bit of a relief.

I’ve been temping at ASH for four months, but this wasn’t just a simple transition. I had to apply for this job and go through several rounds of interviews until I convinced them to bring me on. It probably didn’t hurt, though, that I am familiar with the publishing platform and have developed a good relationship with the Director of Editorial.

This changes everything. It means I can start thinking about things I haven’t thought of since 2018, like going to the dentist and eye doctor and taking vacations. It means that I don’t have to worry about what I’m going to do when my contract wears off. It means I no longer have to stockpile money to last between gigs. It means that, after all this time, I finally feel independent. It means I can finally exhale.

Entitlements

Sometimes, when looking for inspiration, for the answer to a creative question, it’s like a tug of war. You pull and pull, but not-having-the-answer is pulling back even harder. You think about it constantly, you turn over every angle of what you know about what you’re working on, and you’re still not seeing what it is you’re looking for. There’s a solution, and it’s so close, you can taste it.

And then not-having-the-answer lets go of the rope, and you fall on your ass. There it was, what you have been looking for this whole time. The answer couldn’t have been anything else, it’s so obvious now. The frustration dissolves, and the weight lifts off of your shoulders.

I’ve been looking for a title for my vampire novel for five weeks, and I just figured out what it is. It’s called The Bereaved, which should give you a pretty good idea what it’s really about.

A Plot To Take In

So, it turns out my vampire novel isn’t actually about vampires. It’s about the relationship between two young women and how one helps the other come to accept the sadness and anger she feels after a shocking, unimaginable loss and live her life one day at a time, and also there’s some vampires in it. This book will never get published.

Three Stories in One

In 2005 I set out to do a daunting task, and I got fully daunted by it. I wanted to make “Three Stories in One” an illustrated book. “Three Stories in One” is an iredeemibly bonkers short story I wrote in high school, sort-of* cowritten by Boone Siebersma, featuring the public personas of some people we knew, such as myself (the cranky passive narrator), Boone (the unique and aloof one), Luke (sex-starved and well-groomed), Wendy (the badass racecar driver), and Amber (the perky cheerleader). I got through about sixty pages when I put it aside temporarily and never got back to it.

Which is a shame, because the work I did for it was really quite brilliant. Here’s some highlights.

* Sort-of in the sense his inspiration and encouragement were crucial to the process, and he wrote the sequel on his own, but the words on this one are mine.

A Reunion but Sideways

And now, here’s a Hollywood comedy moment that actually happened to me. 

From about 1999 to 2000 Katie was my best friend. I don’t know if I was hers. She had come to New York to be an actor, which didn’t work out, much like my having moved to New York to be a writer. At the time, though, we dreamed big. I liked her because she was funny and weird and larger-than-life, and together we could enjoy the full effect of New York City while not having a penny between us. Life, for me, was simple back then.

We grew apart for various reasons, the least of which was the new romance I got wrapped up in. And because life, for her, was not simple, she left New York to return home. But she was, and still is, one of my favorite people in the world, and when she was going to return to the city for a visit during the Christmas season, I couldn’t have been more excited.

Katie wasn’t a punctual person, but I was, and I arrived at the Union Square Market and waited as the minutes clicked by. There she was, in a shop selling something quaint, and she hadn’t noticed me. I missed her so much, I was going to sneak up and give her the World’s Biggest Hug. And I did.

But it wasn’t Katie.

My victim would have been well within her rights to mace me, but she was quite gracious and good-humored about the whole thing. I turned to escape, only to run into Katie, who thought it was hilarious that I was a sputtering, blushing mess, even if she didn’t know why.

That wasn’t the last time I ever saw Katie, but it is kind of funny that my most vivid memory of her post-move was of someone else entirely.