Hello actual people. I'm a bit a-feared, as Sunny Jim likes to say.  

Last night was Proof Reading. It's the first issue with most of the senior staff gone - our copy editor is in Berlin, another senior editor has relocated to Boston or some such. That meant working through the copy with a handful of editorial interns, mostly under the age of 25. 

I always liked proofing. It was a nice, concrete task, usually performed in silence. We would sit, three or four of us, in a room, quietly combing through the big, colour proofs for any errors that had somehow slipped through copy and fact-checking. Every few minutes someone would ask a nice, answerable question: "What's our policy on commas in numbers over 1000?" or "Are we spelling tee shirt with a t-e-e or a t dash?" And whoever was closest to the style guide would check. Once or twice in a night there would be a little dust-up over whether or not to hyphenate something or which spelling of "grey" was more Canadian. We would get very passionate for two or three minutes until the copy editor made the call, and then all would fall silent again. For ten more minutes, the only sound would be the rustle of paper and the scratch of pencils.

It was even better when we met in the early morning, rather than at night. The hour discouraged any communication beyond what was absolutely necessary. Working in the cool grey light (grey with an "e") felt disciplined and meditative. It appealed to my ascetic side. 

Last night was not that.

Last night I was lucky to get through a whole paragraph before some little bird piped up with a remark. Sometimes it was a question about the copy; more often than not it was totally unrelated. "You'll never believe what happened last night!" Whatever it was, it would start half the other birds chirping as well. "I forgot to tell you...!" Good lord. I absolutely adore them, but they are just too jam-packed with bubbling hormones to sit still for more than a minute. They seem to find silence physically torturous. 

But I will admit, some of it was pretty amusing: "Do you spell S&M with a slash? Like, ess slash em? Can that be right?" The question sent the room into a fit of giggles. And comments. And reminded at least two people of something they'd wanted to tell someone and forgot. 

I saw this program on TV once, about barking dogs. It said that every time a dog barks, another dog hears it and barks in response. A third dog hears the second and so on and so on. Ultimately, it meant that at any given moment there is a chain reaction of barks that rolls like a wave from one end of the country to the other and back again.

(I'm just saying.)

When it was time to go, they all left together. No matter how the editor and I admonished them to be quiet on the stairs (the office is in a residential apartment and the neighbours get very annoyed) they tumbled down like colts on a ramp, a clatter of hooves and whinnies. When they slammed the door behind them (they cannot not slam the door) the silence was audible.

We four old folks who were left (my editor, her husband, Sunny Jim and I) exchanged weary grins as we said goodnight.

I have no idea if we "proofed" well or not.

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I just read this and, after letting my heart break for a second (how many times do we have to be reminded it's what we don't do that we regret?) I have decided it's time to put my foot down. No more screwing around. I either write every day or I stop pretending I can. Or I will later. Or whatever it is I tell myself to keep from drowning in the possibility I have, somehow, become a career secretary engaged to a dog walker*.

It's not going to be pretty, but if you come back here you have no one to blame but yourself.

Some of the advice in the post I linked said, "Write what you want to read." So what's that? 

I want someone to tell me the world is beautiful - not because it is a valuable lesson or because it there are nice people among the mean ones. I want to believe it's beautiful just because it is - shitty, awesome, whatever. I want to find new ways to look at things so I don't forget how. I want someone to reassure me that even though there may not be any reason for anything, at the end of it all, it will have been worth it just because I was there. I want to know what people are thinking - how they parse out the world. Partly it's because I want to see if I'm okay and partly because I want to see if they have something to teach me. And I want to laugh. Laughing is good for you - I know this because a bunch of doctors said so. 

It's a tall order. I'm not sure I'm qualified to teach anyone things or whether or not anyone will want to know what I think. I have no idea if I can make anyone laugh (that one is particularly intimidating). But I'm pretty sure I can just say what I see and that will cover the other stuff. 

At least I will be doing something.
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*This is meant to illustrate the dismal bare-bones fact of the thing and emphasize the chasm between the person I want to be and how I see myself. I have no problem with being a writer who pays the bills doing secretarial work - most writers need day jobs. I also have no issues with people who love being secretaries and want to do that and only that all their lives. Considering the number of shitty writers vs the number of good secretaries, I'd say we need more of the latter than the former. I am NOT passing some negative judgement on secretaries or dog walkers or on my fiancée, whom I absolutely adore. But I will admit it does make me sad that I don't think he is doing the thing that would make him happy, either.

"Famous" and "infamous" do not mean the same thing.

It's early enough, for a Sunday. I should be in bed, but I'm not. My cat is lying on top of the cedar chest next to me, his harp-seal belly a declaration of satisfaction contained between the quotes of his curled paws. He's looking at me, trying to decide why I'm looking at him and if it means he's going to get something nice. In a moment, if nothing appears, he will curl one paw over his nose and go back to sleep.

I envy his contentment. I'm not crazy about the whole litter box system, though.

Sunny Jim and I have been searching for a couch for our apartment for a while, now. We both came into this arrangement with minimal furniture and, though we have a lovely vintage cabinet and a few fantastic lamps in our beautiful front room, we still have nowhere to sit. The space is long and narrow so, after looking around a bit, we agreed our best options were French Provincial or mid-century Modern. That way we could have length without the (useless) depth of so many overstuffed contemporary pieces. Of course, when you're working with a tight budget, that's easier said than done. Antique and vintage dealers - especially in the city - have some pretty inflated prices. Remakes of either of those styles cost even more. To find something thrift is hit or miss and, now that our city is experiencing a bedbug epidemic, we'd have to source something out of town. 

Then a week ago, at about the same time, we had two bits of news. First, a friend in another city found a great French Provincial set for next to nothing at a charity shop. She couldn't hold it for long - we had to make a decision. Then, one of Sunny Jim's relatives said someone in the family had a lovely (and similar) piece in storage and it was possible we might be able to have it - but we wouldn't know for at least a week. 

My first inclination (and I said as much) was to go with the thrift piece. God love family and friends who want to do me favours, but I have had a lot of people hold out a lot of carrots and very few of them ever ended up on my plate. A couch in the hand and all that. But after a long discussion (and a bit of an argument over whether or not I was "accusing" people of being unreliable) I told my friend to let the thrift piece go - we would hold out for the other.

Which, of course, has fallen through.

It's no one's fault and I'm not upset or resentful. Really I'm not. I am mostly grateful the people who love us have our happiness on their minds and want to be helpful. Everyone had the best intentions and I appreciate that. But I am going to have to learn to trust my instincts about these things.

And I'm going to have to learn to curl one paw over my nose and go back to sleep.
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