CALL ME SNAKE

I was having a problem with an editor, and things seemed to go from bad to worse. I was hoping we could patch things up but his latest note suggested our differences were irreconcilable. It felt like a breakup. I had all kinds of well-reasoned arguments as to why such a decision was rash, why we could do great things together, but as in a breakup, the other partner in the conversation didn’t want to hear about it. He’d already made the decision and was ready to move on.

But I wouldn’t let it go and persuaded him to give it another shot. (“My next piece will be better than ever!” I promised. “Our ‘artistic differences’ are a a thing of the past!” I vowed. “Whatever doesn’t kill my article just makes it stronger…”) So for the moment the death sentence has been lifted and I am back to my usual position of being on probation. Walkin’ on eggshells. One slipup away from being back on Death Row. Or as they say in the journalism trade: DEAD MAN WRITING.