I wish we lived in a world with infinite budgets. Then I wouldn’t have to hand my daughter a quarter at the skating center and tell her in my hoity-toitiest best “We know what our budget is” and let her choose from the two or three sucky China made objects they have in the display case. That she will play with said plasticky, cheap object for two minutes and toss it into the car-trash-stash on the ride home makes me feel less guilty about giving her a peanut-allowance.
Fact is, I’m broke. An editor just informed me that his budget was drying up, so I need to seriously recalibrate my earning expectations for this year. Thanks to my writing guru Anne, I’ve been getting responses to my queries from mags, but no one is yet jumping with joy and overpaying me, and asking me to join their staff. Or people are bowled over by my writing but they have strange ways of keeping the fact hidden from me. Maybe they’re worried about letting it get to my head All you eds, maybe you learned your craft at the feet of Indian tiger mothers, who as a rule believe in not praising their progeny. Or at least my mom was like that. I digress.
This week I did something I have never done. Meaning, I cold called an editor listed in a trade mag. I’m so used to getting voice mail and leaving messages that never get returned that I was a bit surprised to hear a human voice at the other end of the line. I was nervous, but the ed was really sweet and asked me to send in my resume.
I’m ready for a bit of fortune turning. I really am. The budget cut email knocked the wind out of me. Maybe I should panhandle for a few days. And write about it! and get it published somewhere. Ok, now that’s a workable idea. Or not.