OK, so I’d be lying if I said there was a finite list of things that piss me off. I can get riled up by a seemingly endless array of situations, responses, behaviors, plot points, reactions, et cetera. But in this day and age of the internuts, the one thing that really chaps my e-hide is a failure to communicate — or more to the point: reciprocate.
Without going into detail, a group e-shout was grapevined to a bunch of writers late yesterday afternoon, with me being one of them. It seems a webzine editor up north was desperate for a writer to attend a screening down here in LA of a soon-to-be-released major/minor motion picture and then quickly turn around a review of the flick over the weekend. The amount of money offered for the gig wasn’t stated, but instead hinted at being an embarrassingly low figure.
So with my ready availability and capability I shot a response back directly to said webzine editor yesterday afternoon saying roughly “Hi, I was notified by Person B who heard it from your friend Person A that you need a reviewer in the house — and fast. I used to do this shit with theater all the time so I’m here if you need me. Love, Will.”
Some time passed and I checked in to see if there was a response. Nothing.
Since there was about an hour between when the open call was sent and when I next checked my inbox, chances are good that another writer beat me to the pitch and the editor got the assignment filled and, if so, good for them. But assuming the whole freakin’ world didn’t hit this guy wit a collective “Pick Me! Pick Me!” is it tooo much gaddam shitsucking trouble to click that email button labeled REFUCKINGPLY and say “Thanks but no thanks,” or “Gee, you’re slow,” or “Sod off,” or “Who the hell are you and how did you get this email address” or “Maybe next time?”
Obviously not. And since this guy considers two-way communication to be sooooo 1990s I’m left checking my inbox almost incessantly from the time up until I went to bed to every few minutes throughout this morning.
Now before anyone goes telling me to temper my temper and adopt less of a WTF stance because people are busy and I’m not the center of the universe and all that crap, please don’t. Because this isn’t the first time. In fact this marks the third pitch and the third time the people I communicated with have vanished like integrity at the White House.
Poof! As if they exist only in my mind. So seeing as I’m working a 3-for-3 perfect record of failure here I’ve already come up with a form pitch letter I’m going to send out for the next freelance gig that might tease its way into my mailbox:
Hello,
It’s my understanding you’re in need of services that are my specialty. Allow me to cut to the chase: I am The Shit. You’d be lucky to exploit my boundless creativity and commitment at the pitiful wage and level of inconvenience you’re offering. If you think there’s even the remotest chance you can convince me to waste my time and energy for you then there’d better be an ass-kissing reply in my inbox within 15 minutes of this email’s timestamp. Clock’s ticking.
Grrrrr.
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