Waiting… The Cold Email Game
by Stefan Slater
The plan for today’s blog post was to share my most recent article on… well, it’s surf-related, that’s all I can say. But said article is not here yet.
It should be fine; I think they’re just waiting to pull together some images for the piece, but I have to say that the waiting game is a brutal one. I’ve checked the pub’s website quite a few times over the course of the past week or two, and there’s still nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. So, the name of the game now is: patience.
This particular publishing situation is no big deal, but sometimes it does seem like these little “challenges” seem to add up. Sometimes, it almost feels like there’s some sort of sadistic office manager standing over me while I’m tip-tap-tapping away on my computer and right when I get into my groove my merciless hypothetical boss starts to sprinkle the stress on my head. It’s light at first, no big deal. I just brush it off. But then, like an aspiring Sumo wrestler trying to pile up the calories at his local IHOP, my boss starts to pour it on.
And I freak out a little.
Yeah. So, said freak outs seems to happen the most when I’m during one of those instances of “uncertainty”: Usually, I’m between big assignments, and I’m sending cold pitches every single day and I’m waiting for responses and, well, things get a little slow. Sure, the responses do start to roll in, but I’m a little impatient sometimes, so I think I need to remind myself that good things take time. (I know it’s a tired platitude, but lay off, it’s all I could come up with and the Bourbon isn’t helping.)
Keeping that in mind, I also need to stay positive in general because, well, I have it pretty good. Great family. Great girl. Working towards my big career goal and, oh, I also live in a state that isn’t frozen.
Case in point: My poor sister went back to school in Ohio today. Last time I checked, it was around 22 degrees, give or take an icicle.
Yeah, that’s my sister’s rental car (she’s in between cars at the moment and she had to pick up a rental for her first month back at school), and she had to practically dig her car out just to go to class.
So, I don’t really think I have anything to complain about. The waiting game bites, but it’ll be over soon enough.
On a final, albeit separate, note, my sister is currently driving a Chevy Impala. I told her to make sure the cops don’t catch her riding dirty. She asked if that “dirty” was spelled with three “r’s.” I told her it couldn’t hurt.
She agreed. And I like her for that.