Rage, and better things
Oct. 2nd, 2007 09:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperance...So I stayed in the house all day yesterday; and no, my bank manager did not call. During my final attempt to locate him, though, I had a conversation with an underling, who said "Ah, yes, I know the letter says that your overdraft will expire tomorrow, but in fact it won't, we'll give you a month's leeway to sort this out."
In other words, they are playing mind-games with me: scaring and harassing me with all this last-minute stuff, rather than taking the adult course of giving me a month's notice that we need to have a conversation. I'm sure it works, from their side; no doubt they get more people responding to an urgent prompt than they would to a month's warning. But it's not a win-win, it's a zero-sum game: their benefit is my loss. Specifically, in this instance I lost a day's work and a weekend of worry.
And, perhaps, a night's sleep: this night just gone has been appalling. I could blame my body, for I have been swallowing pain and other meds to small effect - but that in itself is a giveaway. If efficacious meds are ineffective, we should look elsewhere for the cause. I am glowering bank-wards.
Soon, I shall be writing bank-wards. Coffee first, I think, and then a serious discussion of points above. In a letter. Stuff this phoning lark, writing's my thing. If he phones before I'm finished, tough: I'm still writing the letter.
And then, I hope, I can get back to writing the novel. With a brief divagation for rewrites on last week's story. I submitted draft #1 last night, after hacking 750 words out of draft #0; and found a super-prompt email from the editor in my inbox this morning. I do love email. This almost equals my fastest-ever acceptance, where I sent a story off at 9pm on New Year's Eve, went to a party, came home six hours later to find I'd sold it.
Also, every time I write a story these days? I remember again how much I enjoy it, and how I want to write more.
In other words, they are playing mind-games with me: scaring and harassing me with all this last-minute stuff, rather than taking the adult course of giving me a month's notice that we need to have a conversation. I'm sure it works, from their side; no doubt they get more people responding to an urgent prompt than they would to a month's warning. But it's not a win-win, it's a zero-sum game: their benefit is my loss. Specifically, in this instance I lost a day's work and a weekend of worry.
And, perhaps, a night's sleep: this night just gone has been appalling. I could blame my body, for I have been swallowing pain and other meds to small effect - but that in itself is a giveaway. If efficacious meds are ineffective, we should look elsewhere for the cause. I am glowering bank-wards.
Soon, I shall be writing bank-wards. Coffee first, I think, and then a serious discussion of points above. In a letter. Stuff this phoning lark, writing's my thing. If he phones before I'm finished, tough: I'm still writing the letter.
And then, I hope, I can get back to writing the novel. With a brief divagation for rewrites on last week's story. I submitted draft #1 last night, after hacking 750 words out of draft #0; and found a super-prompt email from the editor in my inbox this morning. I do love email. This almost equals my fastest-ever acceptance, where I sent a story off at 9pm on New Year's Eve, went to a party, came home six hours later to find I'd sold it.
Also, every time I write a story these days? I remember again how much I enjoy it, and how I want to write more.