Several days ago, I got a brief note asking if I wanted to write several book reviews for a national women's group. My friend knew I was interested in some new freelance work, and she didn't have time for this gig; hence, a kind Facebook message to offer it to me.
I panicked. I still had to find a ride to the airport, and get my spare keys from Neighbor A to Neighbor B, and I hadn't showered in three days, and one more not-on-the-list task felt like just too much.
But, she was right. I had been looking for this. It was a great match for me. (Theoretically. No one involved knew I was still in my pajamas at 4 p.m.) I drank a glass of milk and calmly replied that "Suuuure, I'd love to - pass along my info."
Evidently, she did so. I got an email from the NY editor for said publication. Could we talk? Virtually meet?
Ever breezy-on-paper, I repeated my enthusiastic-sounding phrase, "Suuuure, I'd love to!" In my head, I was thinking, "Noooo, I need at least 96 hours! Why couldn't this have happened LAST week?"
But, the little optimist on my shoulder said, "What's a quick phone call? How hard can that be?" My evil pessimist spat and replied, "Ha! How little you know!"
Fortunately, nothing happened for a day. Unfortunately, I spent that day in terror. Finally, emails were being exchanged, I was explaining my travel schedule, and we were finding a mutually good time to "meet." It would work out.
Except that I have no idea how I'm going to squeeze writing into this nutty trip we are about to take...
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