Remember Me?

Wow.

So much for that blogging every day.

Right when the proverbial poopfest hit the fan, I cowered, slinking behind my broken desk chair and just watched the days tick by, without so much as a post or thought or even scribble toward the blogosphere.

I do have some pics to backpost, so I'll "cheat" (allowable cheat, by the rules) with some photo documentation of how I spent my days. But if I'm truthful there, most of the photos will depict the scene I'm looking at right here, minus the blogger template: a pile of fall-colored file folders, a Moleskine tantalizingly left open, and Wonder Woman and Rogue action figures, hovering on my periphery, contemplating whether they should jump and make a break for freedom while I'm not looking or if they should whip my sorry ass toward a bubble bath and margarita.

Because 36 straight hours in this chair don't do much for my "aura."

(Stop and listen to the toys, Sarah. Listen.)

The 3 a.m. Show

This is when I wish I had a "real" job.

Sleepless

It's 2:08 a.m. and I'm still up. That's what having a bowl of tea after midnight will do to you. You know, Keep You Awake.

(Apparently, caffeine has something to do with that.)

So this, in case you were wondering, is the life of a freelancer. Stealing hours in the middle of the night, so I don't have to steal them from my child during the day. And this is also a product of taking the weekend off.

Yes, the whole weekend.

The entire weekend.

And I'm sorry, it felt real good. Even better than this caffeine high I've got going on.

Now, at 2:15 a.m., I'm finished with my project and rather spent. I'm scanning Proof of Life--the movie that ruined families! that broke up the pixie and the smile! the one where I, like Meg, fell in love with Russell Crowe! and the same film where Meg and Russ have no believable onscreen chemistry whatsoever because, well, I suppose because they were so believable offscreen!--all because the other 1,500 channels I have on my digital cable (only like 2 of which are HD) are dedicated to helping me make money off of newspaper ads while I finally get my washboard abs that I've been asking for every Christmas.

Where's my phone?

Sometimes People Actually Ask Me for Advice and Sometimes I Just Stare Back at Them and Gawk

Once I month, I go to these networking events--lots of entrepreneurs, lots of introductions, lots of swapping of job descriptions with me standing there, usually glass-eyed, wondering if I'm actually supposed to understand the finer intricacies of investment banking.

(This is where the yummy buffet comes in handy. I like smoked salmon.)

Sometimes I get reciprocated upon. Not often, but enough. So I have a 30 second speech I give about what I do. And they usually say, "Neat," or if they don't have a mouthful of smoked salmon, "I wish I could write." To which I reply, "I'm glad you can't."

Well, not really.

But that usually rounds out my end of the conversation. Because I'm a writer and I'm better at "listening." Or because I'm socially inept. It can really go either way.

Last week, though, I entered one of these conversations empty plated. (I had just cleared it on an insurance broker.) He asked me what I do, I gave him my speech, and then he went off-script:

"So, tell me this, Sarah"--notice dropping of name, good networker that--"how can I become a better writer?"

He's supposed to give me the conversation closer, "I wish I could write." Then we could smile and make our mingling excuses and go on to other conversations and that Greek pasta salad that I haven't had a chance to try.

And I should have an answer for this. I teach writing. I should have some exercises in my purse--just let me go get those--that I can toss out to folks who want to improve their writing on the spot. Even at networking events. Because a good teacher never lets her guard down.

Or I could've given him a business card and told him I would guide him, for a fee, to a lucid style.

But instead I prattle something about reading a lot and getting an editor who's callous enough to give you a good smackdown, apparently not me since I followed that with a giggle and not my card. Because that's what professionals do when they're trying to teach or get business or make connections at networking events.

I have no social survival skills. I am a social moron.

So now I have to redeem myself. And since I can't talk my way out of it all impromptu-like, I'll have to craft it out here. Yeah, lucky you, I know.

Tip the First: Read good stuff--and read off script.

I have this theory about my personal word count. If I write too much stuff in a week, I run out of words, out of fresh ways to say things. So I read. Marketing brochures, ads, art reviews--things that are on script. And then I also go off the page, to things that I don't write. This afternoon I stocked up with Guy Gugliotta's "Mining for Dark Matter" in Discover and my supergem of the day, "50 Things Every Sportsman Should Know" in Field and Stream.

And so today, I may still not be able to network to save my life, but I might be able to survive a bear attack and I feel quite confident, given enough time, that I could start a fire with a Coke can and a Snicker bar.

There's a Reason Why They Put Tax Season in the Spring

How's this for a retirement plan: dying.

I really hate this time of year.

This Is a Metaphor-Free Zone

I woke up at 3 a.m. this morning, realizing that I had crashed out on Finn in the middle of What Is Easter? and Spring Easter Bugs, two appropriately seasonal gifts from his Godma K.

What was supposed to happen? I was supposed to read the books, have a nice chat and song (usually one I have adapted from my favorite Shakespeare play. I know. Complete goob) and then get up, brew myself some Tibetan Eye of the Tiger, and work diligently on one of my client's projects until I hit epiphany or insanity. Often, I can't tell the two apart. I don't know that you necessarily should.

That didn't happen. Not so much.

Instead, I found myself at 3 a.m., with a book in my ribs, one in my calf, and one in my ear; with drool (I'm not absolutely sure whose) in my hair; some kind of heavy, round object (oh, that's a head) on my foot; and a few panels on a brochure left to write.

I can tell you, that was a bona fide extrication, my friend. I can tell you that with complete confidence, but, uncharacteristically, without metaphor. (Yes, me, at a lack for metaphor.)

But I can also tell you, again with complete confidence, that I love my job.

Word Whore

I am a freelance writer. I've been peddling the Great Big Alphabet since about 2003, right about the time we had Finn and I decided that being with my son was a bit more important than running copies in suburban Kansas.

Don't get me wrong--I liked my job and I loved my boss. (Probably the best boss I've ever had. Very intuitive, very smart.) But there was just this one little nugget of xeroxin' not-fun in the job description, and each time I confronted the copier--at least once a week for several hours at a time--the guilt just got overwhelming. Finally, I had to throw in the toner and head home, fingers crossed that I could make a go of writing for a living.

As any freelancer will tell you, there are ups and downs, feast or famine. It's oftentimes a lonely, quiet world (except for the ambiance provided by screaming toddler).

But it's a challenge. Every job, whether it's a marketing brochure, newsletter, magazine article, annual report or Web site, is a puzzle and a little piece of poetry. And smabmouth love her some puzzlin' and poetryin'.

I say all this as a way of introducing my newest label--Lanced and Loaded--and as an explanation for some bloggin' to come, wherein (there it is) I will discuss the supreme fun of the working-in-pajamas life and offer you, or dear buyer of the Great Big Alphabet, some suggestions for how to raise and nurture your very own freelance writer.