Who could possibly be interested in ME???

I have an interview tonight. Not a job interview. Tonight, someone from my hometown paper is going to call me for an interview. She’s going to speak with my husband, as well.

Some weeks ago, I had solicited all of the local papers within a 25-mile radius of where I lived, back in the bygone days of singledom. I queried all of these editors about an idea I had of a column. The thrust of the column (get your minds out of the gutter!) would be the accounts of an expatriate woman, living in Germany. Basically, what I’ve done here. The purpose of this was to earn some saving money for our semi-imminent return to the US.

So far, I’ve gotten turned down by three editors. The first, I’ll come back to. The second, was very rude. The third, said he didn’t think my idea fit his paper, but would forward my query to another paper that directly served my hometown. I had already queried that particular paper, and have yet to hear from its editor, but figured at the time that my idea being forwarded to him by the editor of another paper couldn’t be a bad thing.

The first response I had, from the first newspaper I queried, was actually quite positive. It was from the editor of my hometown paper. He thought my idea had potential and to forward some samples of my work. I took some of the posts from here and sent them to him. That very day (or rather, it was late evening for me), I received a very enthusiastic response from another person at the same paper. He said they were very interested in my idea, but had no place for it at the moment. Would I be willing to wait a few weeks to a few months for them to discuss it, and see where in the paper they could work it in? Then, he asked if I would be willing to submit to an interview by one of their reporters, which could serve as a bridge to my column.

I’m no idiot. Of course, I said, SURE! I wasn’t sure, however, whether I would hear from them again, and if so, whether it would be before our Big Move (if it happens).

Then two evenings ago, I received an e-mail from the reporter who would conduct the interview. We bounced e-mails back and forth, and settled on a time. Tonight is the big night. She’ll be calling around 2:30 pm CDT, and will want to talk to my husband as well. He was silly about it when I told him, and I could tell he was a little bit excited. “Try to think of all the questions she’ll ask…” He’s very, ehm, organized, that one. True to his German nature.

I did tell him one question she revealed would be whether we intend to come back to the US. I suggested it would probably be a good idea to not lie, but not reveal our plans, either. Yes, we’re interested, but at the moment we’re undecided. Which, basically, is the truth.

So, think of me this afternoon. I’m nervous, excited, and wondering if, since the interview is being conducted so soon, are they getting ready to squeeze me into their scheme?

Creating from the Heart

About 12 years ago, two things happened. First, we had a flood. I had a pile of artwork I'd done in high school and college collected in one of those large reddish-brown paper portfolios. I'd only taken one art class in college, and while I could produce some nice things, it always took an enormous amount of effort and concentration. So each piece, for its own reason, was pretty dear to me. This folder got caught in that flood, and my dad--uncharacteristically--threw it away and everything inside it.

By the time I found out, it was too late and the news devastated me. That artwork had been things of the heart which I could never get back, never replicate.

A few months later, I had been working on the computer. When I was done, I took the 3.5 floppy out of the drive, gathered my things, and started up the stairs to bed. Three steps up, I tripped. Everything in my hands went flying, including a full glass of water. The floppy and the water made contact, and everything on that disk was destroyed.

On that disk were all the papers I'd ever written in college, and all the short stories I'd written up to that time (yes, most of all that paperwork were relatively short!). Naturally, I could not recover these things on the disk.

I told these two stories to a friend of mine shortly after the waterlogged-floppy incident. Henry said a bundle of his artwork had gotten destroyed in a flood, too, some years before. But it was his mother who had thrown the paintings away. He was livid, at first, but then realized everything he'd done was still in his heart. It was still recoverable from that hard drive of the soul, but it would come out in different form, sometimes even better than before.

I'm no longer friends with that person, but those words, so like the ones Ciel offered me in her comment, will always live in my heart. I don't do artwork anymore, but whenever I lose a document, or a chunk of text (which, thankfully, isn't often!), I always think of what my friend Henry said to me. Then, I hunker down and start over, having faith that the next result will be as good, if not better.

After I throw a hair-pulling, blood-curdling temper tantrum.