When I was a young newspaper reporter, I used to have weird nightmares about covering something (sometimes a murder, or a basketball game or something late at night on deadline) and I would find myself running frantically, trying to find a phone.
Of course, this was before cell phones. I could never find a damned phone in the dream. Ever. And I just knew that I was going to die. Not be fired. Die. Oh, and sometimes I was naked.
Really.
I would wake up from those dreams in a cold sweat, my heart pounding.
Stress can do that to a person sometimes. And being a young, inexperienced reporter at a big-city daily newspaper is stressful. Deadlines were always looming, and editors would scream and yell and call me names, none of them beginning with Terry or ending with Towery.
And then it would pass. And we'd all go out for a beer. Or ten. And then we'd do it all over again the next day.
The word that comes to mind when I think back on those heady early days of my career is vulnerable. That's how I felt. Vulnerable. It didn't matter how good of a writer I was, or how talented I was, or how clever or cute, etc. If I missed the damn deadline, I was -- as my old city editor used to say -- "f---king dead!" God rest his soul, I really do miss that guy. He was blunt, and scary as hell, but he made me a much better reporter than I could have ever been on my own.
Ah, the good old days.
Yes, there's a relevant point to all this. I think. Anyway, in the past twenty-four hours, I have sent out three electronic versions of my manuscript. I just pressed the send button and voila, they were gone.
This afternoon, I spent thirty minutes on the phone with a helpful but not-too-smart young person from the local Kinko's, setting up a massive printing project tomorrow -- 1,670 pages. Four complete manuscripts, printed to my demanding specifications.
Those go to four more beta readers this week. That, my friends, is seven versions of The Devil You Don't Know, sent out all by itself into the big, bad world.
To live or die on its merits.
Last night, I had that dream again -- for the first time in more than twenty years.
Of course, this was before cell phones. I could never find a damned phone in the dream. Ever. And I just knew that I was going to die. Not be fired. Die. Oh, and sometimes I was naked.
Really.
I would wake up from those dreams in a cold sweat, my heart pounding.
Stress can do that to a person sometimes. And being a young, inexperienced reporter at a big-city daily newspaper is stressful. Deadlines were always looming, and editors would scream and yell and call me names, none of them beginning with Terry or ending with Towery.
And then it would pass. And we'd all go out for a beer. Or ten. And then we'd do it all over again the next day.
The word that comes to mind when I think back on those heady early days of my career is vulnerable. That's how I felt. Vulnerable. It didn't matter how good of a writer I was, or how talented I was, or how clever or cute, etc. If I missed the damn deadline, I was -- as my old city editor used to say -- "f---king dead!" God rest his soul, I really do miss that guy. He was blunt, and scary as hell, but he made me a much better reporter than I could have ever been on my own.
Ah, the good old days.
Yes, there's a relevant point to all this. I think. Anyway, in the past twenty-four hours, I have sent out three electronic versions of my manuscript. I just pressed the send button and voila, they were gone.
This afternoon, I spent thirty minutes on the phone with a helpful but not-too-smart young person from the local Kinko's, setting up a massive printing project tomorrow -- 1,670 pages. Four complete manuscripts, printed to my demanding specifications.
Those go to four more beta readers this week. That, my friends, is seven versions of The Devil You Don't Know, sent out all by itself into the big, bad world.
To live or die on its merits.
Last night, I had that dream again -- for the first time in more than twenty years.
