I don’t know what the hell’s up with all passive-aggressive functionaries refusing to do the job I’m literally paying them for lately, but there are at least two in the world now who know not to fuck with me, so there’s that.
Yeah, yesterday was a long day, can you tell? Today is just as damp, just as chilly, but it feels a lot better, maybe because I took yesterday afternoon and evening (bracketing dinner) and played with a trunk novel. It’ll never see light of day but it pleases me, and that’s the important thing when one’s reached the edge of recovering from a hard revision.
It’s amazing how passive-aggressive assholes automatically assume I’m easy prey. They learn their mistake at about the fourth exchange, where I refuse to be sidetracked or gaslit and keep asking (politely, of course) the questions I need clearly answered. I can get away with this sort of bureaucratic or interpersonal judo–I am, after all, a pudgy middle-aged white lady; I do my damndest to use my powers for good and for punching up.
And, let’s face it, most of these jackwads are pikers. Having survived much worse and deeper passive-aggression, gaslighting, and just plain aggression as a young sprout has stood me in good stead. Calmly and crisply repeating the questions I need answered despite all attempts at fancy verbal footwork to fob me off? I can do that all damn day, my friend, with a side of “let’s hear from your supervisor, and no I will not call so you can browbeat me over the phone, we’re going to do this in email where there’s a record of every damn word, so choose your next ones carefully, sir.”
I almost want to hire myself out for bureaucratic judo–say, being a patient advocate, or someone who just comes with someone who might not have my advantages to various appointments, sitting in the corner and watching while making notes on a pad.
For some reason, a pudgy middle-aged white lady taking notes makes a lot of petty tyrants shape their shit up on the spot. I could probably do a lot of good in that arena.
Anyway, that’s a career choice for if the writing doesn’t pan out, I suppose. Right now it’s time to climb back up on the horse–HOOD‘s second season needs a deep revise so it can shamble towards publication. And Season Three is lurking, starting with a jailbreak and ending with a speeder chase–Marah’s piloting is going to be put to an ultimate test, and so is Robb’s self-loathing. Giz, of course, just has to sacrifice everything he’s worked for to win what he wants.
But I’m ahead of myself. There’s revision to be done before I can have any more fun, or beat up any more characters in new and interesting ways. (Yeah, I just said “fun” twice, basically.) Not to mention dogs to walk and more coffee to get into my tissues so I can stop mistyping small words. It’s taken a ridiculous amount of time to get this post done, honestly.
On the bright side, it took only two days completely off and a day and a half of light work before I felt recovered, which is some kind of record after a revision. The trick will be not pushing myself into a breakdown because I feel temporarily better. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.
Happy Thursday, chickadees. And may all of us be free of passive-aggressive petty tyrants, now and forevermore, amen.