Last day of my superman sleep cycle. Frankly, it’s been a bit of a waste of time. All I’ve done is stare at walls and feel as if the world is one big, bleak ball of shit. The play isn’t quite finished. The pitching frenzy was nothing of the sort. I’ve lost a lot of weight and could play a little tune on my ribs, if I wanted to.
Yes, a bit of a waste of time. You’ll be able to read more about it all when the feature runs next week. Actually, if it runs: apparently the paper only publishes 25% of the freelance material it commissions. I’ve never had anything spiked before, but part of me wouldn’t mind if this one didn’t work out: it’s for a paper I’m not keen on and I still get two thirds of the agreed fee if it isn’t published. Further, I spent much of yesterday morning with a photographer and had to ham up my tiredness (not necessary, I was creamed) and generally mug to the camera. With each mug, a little part of me died. However, if it is published, I get more money and an opportunity to drum up some exposure for one or two of my certain-to-fail projects, including this one, the one where I’m ridiculously pitching 642 magazines; and the play, which remains half written.
Whatever the newspaper gods decide, the outcome will be in some way detrimental I’m sure. My luck’s in the toilet right now. All the editors in the country have ganged up and decided not to reply to my pitches, emails, or demands that they please try to pay me roughly on time. I’ve been through this before of course, so I know I can get through a bad patch, but, jesus, just look at how I’ve turned out.