Tomorrow is Melbourne Cup day and they're not getting back to me. If they haven't got back to me by tomorrow, mid-morning, it's gonna mean waiting until Wednesday. The 'race that stops a nation', for those of you born outside Australia, is the major event in the horse-racing calendar here.
At workplaces everywhere, staff congregate near TV sets and drink beer, munch snacks, and chat until the winner is announced. Then they go home, because they're too drunk to work any more.
Apart from essential services, that's the scenario I'm facing as the clock on my wall chimes the end of the work-day.
I sent a bunch of emails yesterday - Sunday - for stories I'm working on. Then there's that email sent on Saturday and the guy in Melbourne I spoke to on Friday who promised he'd send me a list of contacts for another story. It all adds up. Journalists are always waiting, it seems, for someone to return their call, reply to their email, or otherwise acknowledge that they exist.
Are we so hateful? Is there an as-yet-undiscovered genetic marker that predisposes individuals living in advanced economies to distrust those who uphold the very democracy they depend on for their happiness and security?
Add this paucity of considerate correspondents to the problems I'm having with Facebook, and you can understand why I'm slightly disgruntled.
I sent yet another missive to Facebook today. I don't know if anything has changed on that front, as I haven't attempted to change my password (again) today. There doesn't seem to be much point to it until some sign emerges from the crusty depths of cyberspace to tell me 'All is now OK'.
Until that happens, I'm going to sit tight and wait. Meanwhile, there are criminals out there who have evil designs on my data. Absent access to Facebook, I spent several hours yesterday and today updating my website. Go and look, but don't laugh. It may look odd, but it's taken me two years to get this far.
I put two loads of washing out to dry this morning. At least I achieved something today.
At workplaces everywhere, staff congregate near TV sets and drink beer, munch snacks, and chat until the winner is announced. Then they go home, because they're too drunk to work any more.
Apart from essential services, that's the scenario I'm facing as the clock on my wall chimes the end of the work-day.
I sent a bunch of emails yesterday - Sunday - for stories I'm working on. Then there's that email sent on Saturday and the guy in Melbourne I spoke to on Friday who promised he'd send me a list of contacts for another story. It all adds up. Journalists are always waiting, it seems, for someone to return their call, reply to their email, or otherwise acknowledge that they exist.
Are we so hateful? Is there an as-yet-undiscovered genetic marker that predisposes individuals living in advanced economies to distrust those who uphold the very democracy they depend on for their happiness and security?
Add this paucity of considerate correspondents to the problems I'm having with Facebook, and you can understand why I'm slightly disgruntled.
I sent yet another missive to Facebook today. I don't know if anything has changed on that front, as I haven't attempted to change my password (again) today. There doesn't seem to be much point to it until some sign emerges from the crusty depths of cyberspace to tell me 'All is now OK'.
Until that happens, I'm going to sit tight and wait. Meanwhile, there are criminals out there who have evil designs on my data. Absent access to Facebook, I spent several hours yesterday and today updating my website. Go and look, but don't laugh. It may look odd, but it's taken me two years to get this far.
I put two loads of washing out to dry this morning. At least I achieved something today.
2 comments:
I have days like this too. I get tired of journalists being treated like scum on the bottom of someone's shoe. There was a time (though not in my lifetime) when being a journalist was a glamorous, cool thing (I think. Maybe that's just in movies.)
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Here's my typical inner whine: Can't pay my bills, so I need a story. NOW. Not tomorrow. Can't find a story. Oh god, what if I never have another story idea? What kind of journalist runs out of ideas? Ooh! Here's one! Eh, I hate pitching. My editor will think it's stupid. He'll think I'm stupid. It's not even that great an idea. It's kind of interesting though. But maybe it's only interesting to me. Other people might think it's boring. Maybe I'm boring. Is that why I'm having such bad luck with dating? What journalist has time for a relationship anyway? Speaking of time, I need to find a story. Maybe I should have a snack first and clear my head. Oh yeah, I have no food because I have no money. I have to find a freaking story. Dear god, please cut a starving journalist some slack. We're not so bad. Why does everyone hate us? I should have become a veterinarian. Except I hate science. Sigh. Guess I'll go back to looking for a story idea. I'm kind of tired now though. I think I'll take a nap.
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At least you're not neurotic with your whining.
Carmen - that's an amazing and funny run-down of the problems we face. Thanks so much for commenting.
And good luck with the pitches. It's the chicken-and-the-egg every time, right? Is that promise of a fantastic interview enough to convince an editor, or do you spend two days on the thing before making the call?
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