Did you know that when you edit a monthly newsletter, you have to produce a newsletter every single month?
Well, you do.
You don’t publish an August issue and then just rest on your laurels.
In thirty days–fewer than that in February–another month rolls around, and you’re supposed to come up with something new. People expect it. They don’t want to read about last month.
Truly, there is no rest for the weary. Or for the wicked.
I am wicked.
I moan and whinge about the drudgery–Double, double toil and trouble–but once I start working, I also start having fun. I lose track of time. The latest issue missed my self-imposed deadline not just because the computer fell by the wayside, but because I kept tweaking: a link here, a comma there, delete this, insert that, bold this, italicize that, change black to red, red to black.
Eye of newt, toe of frog, wool of bat, tongue of dog…
With fire burning and cauldron bubbling, and so many poisoned entrails, as well as thesaurus.com, at my disposal, I didn’t want to call it quits. Once again, I stayed up later than late, but I wasn’t laboring. I was playing. Concocting a brand new potion. Elixir. Charm. Beguilement.
If you want the pure, unadulterated version of my writing process, there it is.
And in a couple of weeks, it’s back to the cauldron again.
This time, though, there’s potential for sanity.
For the past couple of months, the assistant editor and I have been running as fast as we could to stay in the same place. Before the next issue comes out, we’re going to meet, discuss goals, nail down a format. I’ll show her what I can about using WordPress. She’ll come up with more good ideas. I’ll write them down so I won’t forget.
After we confer, the whingeing could abate.
But it won’t.
Because, contrary to decades of experience, I think I can do everything in five minutes.
Because my brain kicks in–really–at the last minute.
Because I do my best work–really–between 10:00 p.m. and 4:00 a.m.
Because I have these flashes of cock-eyed optimism that temporarily override my normally rational, pessimistic nature.
Because I like to whinge.
I mean, what do you think those Weird Sisters were doing, stirring that cauldron, waiting for Macbeth to wander in for a consultation? They were whingeing. It’s a good Scottish word, and they were Scottish Sisters, and, no matter how much pleasure they derived from their culinary endeavour, they’d been standing over a hot stove all night. Furthermore, quality frog toes aren’t easy to come by. What’s not to whinge about.
So expect no change. Proper prior planning may prevent weariness, but it won’t improve my character.
I’m wicked. And it’s comfortable. And I think it’s what I want to be.