I am one of those rare people who will not get terse with a telemarketer — even when I want to be. I figure, they are just doing their job, earning a buck. But this Beth, this pesky-as-a-mosquito sales representative from Play, an illustration directory marketed to the toy and gaming industry, is about to drive me freaking batty. She calls me during the day. She calls me at night. She sends emails, and letters — even though each time, I tell her no, I don't want to purchase a $3,000-plus advertisement.
"Oh hello Beeeeeeeethhhhhh," I said, as drawn-out and irritated as I could possibly sooooound, just a second agoooooo, when she called once mooooore. I just talked to this woman last week, so it seemed. She proposes payment plans, special deals, sends me free catalogs, and offers unsolicited marketing advice (purchase an ad from her, no doubt).
Today, I wasn't so nice. I couldn't help it. Though I didn't say anything mean, my long deep sigh, and the tone of my voice said it all. I hope. And the next time she calls, I'm gonna unleash the brotha living inside me, the one reserved for those special occasions — or people — who provoke him out of his Mr. Nice Guy personna.
I don't like to unleash the Brotha, 'cause he can be kinda street, and ain't as tactful as I.
I'm about to do something I probably shouldn't do — somebody'd better stop me. I'm gonna email my manuscript back to my editors. I've addressed the questions and suggestions they posed. I've incorporated many of the suggestions made my author colleagues. I probably should let this simmer for a few more days, then give it another once-over, but to be honest, I'm exhasporated. I'm feeling like I should revert back to doing artwork — paint a picture once, and be done with it. I mean, as a writer, at what point do you finally call a work finished and move on to the next thing? I'm gonna let this whole matter simmer overnight, then send it off tomorrow. In the meantime, I'm gonna go run a few miles.