All the next day at work I was nauseous. The anxiety over such a huge fallacy and the very real probability that my actual writing credibility could be damaged by it made it difficult to focus.
But what it did do was light a fire under my ass to get back on my game. I emailed the manager and admitted that I am only a freelancer. I told him I was still interested in an interview. A couple of days later I left him a voice mail as well. I still have not heard back.
In the meantime I launched queries to every periodical I thought might be interested from the Oregonian to Rolling Stone.
Admittedly, it’s been a couple of years since I did a large project by my own volition rather than assignment which meant I had to remember how to structure a query – and to be perfectly honest – the query is my most disliked part of being a writer. I fucking hate the query.
Anywhoo, while doing all this I was also revamping my resume to show the work I’ve done in the music industry in Portland in the last three years. I’ve gotten lazy since all my work has been by reference and word of mouth so I’ve never actually needed to rely on an updated resume. The industry here is still small enough that most of the people I do gigs for know who I am. Which largely works in my favor – until moments like these when I don’t even have a polished resume.
There was a point when I was staring up at the ceiling after getting home from Sinferno when I remember thinking, “Why do I want to do an article anyway? Why not just be content as some tipsy bimbo in the audience and toss my panties up on stage and call it a “fan tribute” and move on?” I was leaning against the bar at the time and as I’d had a couple of bourbons I thought, “Panties. Sure. Why not? Let’s absolve myself of this ridiculous need to do work and be a writer and tell stories. I should throw my panties. Wait. Which panties am I wearing? I hope it’s not the terrible polka dot granny panties. Wait. Did I change and put on the Neon day-glo orange panties? Pretty sure I tried them on with the dress I didn’t wear. Crap! Did I change my underwear when I put on my jeans?”
It turns out, I didn’t actually wear any panties – which was good, because day-glo panties are certainly not sexy. I laid awake staring at the ceiling wondering why. Why do I feel driven – even when I am not entirely coherent to capture a story? What is in my primary makeup that wants me to take a picture, write notes, ask questions and entertain? Why can’t I just be like the other girls and settle for letting strange guys buy my drinks, flirt a little and go home with someone? And why the fuck did I ever think orange underpants were sexy? Idiot.
It took a couple of days of scrambling my memory for gig details and calling people I’ve done work for in the past and asking them to be references – and as the references and well wishes came pouring in -my resume pushed into four pages and I began deleting information to whittle it down.
On top of all of it, by calling them all up and checking in (as I have sort of fallen off the planet for the last 9 months) they seemed surprised to hear from me and through re-establishing contact I got offered two new article gigs and one photo opportunity.
I think it’s going to be a pretty busy summer. I might not get the interview with Kane – but one of the interviews this summer is even bigger and could be a whole lot of fun! The Kane debacle might have been just what I needed to reawaken the memory of why exactly I do this stuff.
I do it because it makes me feel alive. I’m not content letting strange guys buy me drinks and waving my panties around at a show because – I like getting below the surface. The show is all show. I want to tell the story of how the show gets made. That’s what’s fun for me.
So, here’s to you Corina. Thank you! Thank you for nudging me back toward something that brings me bliss. Thank you for putting me in a spot wherein I was required to have some self-accountability for my passions. Thank you for reminding me that I need to get off my ass and get back in there, get back behind the camera, pick up a pen again. Thank you!
The next round is on me.
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