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Like any good debutante, I have molded my spit curls, fluffed my hoop dress and greased my dentures with a good thick layer of Vaseline – ready to glide through the bedazzled entranceway, mingle with the noble residents of Blogsboro and stun the breeches off eligible suitors. In this analogy, the suitors will represent hordes of eager readers and editors, and the stunning yet humble deb shall be I, your plucky wordsmith extraordinaire.

I decided, as of 1 Jan. 2007, to pursue full-throttle freelance self-employment. I have been writing as long as I can remember, and I like to think I have trounced out the demons of my sexy-teens-in-ski-lodge/at-beach phase or just replaced them with sexy young adults gallivanting about the globe. Historically I have been rather ambivalent toward my professional writing career, contributing here or there to papers when it was convenient and working a lot of strange temp jobs. (Hey, these jobs are experience-building story-fodder).

Having spent all my gold doubloons on the degrees that make my writing “legit,” I began to tire of people asking why I kept them framed in the cab of my dump truck. I suppose they didn’t understand my multi-thousand-dollar artwork or my explanation. They also don’t speak much English out in the sugar beet fields. But I didn’t quite understand either. I knew I didn’t want to beg for some shit job at a monthly paper in remote Saskatchewan, but freelancing seemed like a lot of work. Ultimately my need for the clickity-clack of some keys beneath my tips became too much to bear. Steady manual labor paychecks are one thing, but it seems I’m too legitimate to quit.


So I bought my requisite “Writer’s Market 2007,” girded my curvaceous loins and swan-dived into the piranhas. January here at my mountain lair in northern Idaho has blurred into one lengthy and fucking freezing stint in front of the computer. Essentially, I have been researching, pitching, writing and corresponding like a motherfucker. The pay off? Crickets. The rundown: pennipoor getting penniless; multiple proposals floating around New York offices somewhere; tickets for NYC and Spain leaving in five weeks. Some would say don’t buy your euro-tix before they hatch baby story agreements, but I like to think poverty and hunger breed brilliance and ingenuity. Regardless it’s better to basque (get it) destitute on Spanish beaches than shiver my nips off – slightly less destitute – in the snowy Northwest.


And so, fair readers, I curtsy deep before you, eyelashes fluttering and ringlets shellacked. I cordially invite you to stick around for more titillating innuendo and further discussion of suitorial endowments. Welcome to my adventures.