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awful yeast infection I had last week?”) We agree to meet at seven, and I get started calling around with my story idea. Normally you write in, but since I am so impatient, and ready to start on this project immediately, I just start calling editors directly. They already have me on file from all of the stories they have rejected in the past. I start with Marie Claire . Sorry, we’re actually concentrating more on women who will do anything anyone asks them to, like ride a horse naked down Fifth Avenue or marry and divorce three men in a month—and even for that we’re booked with stories until . . . until (paper rifling) February 2010.
    Why don’t you try back then? Vogue . Love is so last season, daahling. It’s all about bittersweet right now. But, of course, your name would have to be instantly recognizable to our readers in order to be considered. You’re not the one from that movie with Corey Feldman are you? Woman’s Day . We’ll get back to you in a few months and if you could somehow work that into a cookie recipe and get a really good celebrity to come and cook it with you . . . No, you know what? We already did that one. Us Weekly . I have just one question for you. Do pictures of J. Lo or Ben fit into this story anywhere?
    It’s all feeling pretty hopeless until I get the Cosmo features editor on the phone. In a very uncomfortable split-second decision, I decide to use Lisa’s name to get in the door and hopefully prevent another railroading rejection. I feel horrible, but I just know she 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 31
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    wouldn’t mind. She’s such a smart businesswoman, she’d probably be shocked I haven’t used it before.
    “Oh, a friend of Lisa’s, eh?” After providing me with a gener-ous “fifteen seconds to describe your idea, start-inggggg—now!” I barrel my way through the pitch, feeling with every word that maybe the idea wasn’t as great as I thought and that I am the stupidest person on this earth and why, oh why, does anybody in the world let me speak, ever, and when I’m through I am absolutely shocked because Karen says, “Maybe. Yes, maybe. We’ll have to think about it.”
    Although no maybe responses have, as yet, ever morphed into assignments for me, I have also never as of yet been known as a friend of Lisa McLellon’s and the laws of creatively applied positive thinking clearly state that I can apply “feelings” and “hunches” to motivate myself at any time I deem appropriate. It is just this sort of positive thinking that keeps me from stapling my fingers to the desk after quite definite and, well, abrasive “no’s” minus any “thank-you’s,” excuses, or similar pleasantries—and, in one case, the addition of a “how did you get this number?”—from Bazaar, Shape, Glamour, Mademoiselle. I’m thinking this all over, and decide, maybe I will take a break and begin calling about some of those jobs in the paper.
    The first place asks that I fax over a resume. This means I have to get my resume in order. Shit. I forgot about this. Writing a resume is possibly the most irritating task one can perform. Since you just alter everything to make it say what you want anyway, I don’t see the point. It’s basically a page of lies. Everyone knows that. They should just do away with the resume altogether. I begin thinking about things I’d rather be doing. Going shopping. Going on a date. With a good-looking exec in a pinstripe suit. Kissing me in the taxi on the way to Daniel. Placing his hand on my back as he 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 32
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    leads me to our table. Revealing a tiny turquoise box over a warm chocolate torte with crème fraîche.
    Suddenly, I feel inspired to get a jump-start on the article. These romantic imaginings should not be wasted. I minimize the window with my resume on it. So far, I’ve changed the font, played with several type sizes for my