Author: ptalirca

The designer forgot my middle initial. And my name and the word "novel" will be a bit bigger. A little tinkering will go down between now and July 4th. But for the most part, this is what we're working with. Introducing...

From my In Box: Dear Aliya: Your site is a great resource for new freelancers. Thanks for offering your advice and experiences. I have a query. I'm still a student, but starting my career as a young journalist based in New York. I have a regular gig with a prominent website, but recently I had my first foray with print. I wrote up my pitch and sent it in (to a national weekly). Call it beginners luck but they bought it soon afterwards. I know things can move slowly with a magazine and that editors can sit on stories for as long as they want. They can even enact the dreaded kill fee. I recently filed the story and to be honest, I don't know anything about its current status. Is there anyway to know if a story is being sat on? or whether its death is being contemplated? Thanks much, I hope to hear your advice, -Alex ____________________________________________________________________________________ What I love about my blog is that when I hear from new freelancers, they are going through the same things I'm going through, even with ten years in the game. My response to Alex:

[caption id="attachment_3800" align="alignnone" width="347" caption="You're wearing WHAT?!"][/caption] Note before I begin: TH is not a supporter of this blog. I mean, he supports everything I do. But he doesn't read the blog. And he expects to not be mentioned--ever. For the unitiated, TH stands for The Husband. So, I mention him only when necessary. That's fair. I had to ask for special permission to write this post. And my permission was granted--grudgingly. So I ask that if you know him, pretend you didn't read this post. If someone tweets him or shoots out an email to him, teasing him about this post, my blog will be shut down forever. Okay, so here's the thing. I'm one of those neck-swiveling wives. I'm not meek. If I think he should wash the dishes, I'm nagging. If I don't like something he says, he'll know it. My pointer finger has been known to be in the near vicinity of his face. My husband is unflappable. When I'm giving lip, he ignores me. When I'm nagging, he nods and smiles and goes back to watching Meet The Press. But when it really goes down and I need him, he's there for me. Unwavering. We're both self-made hustlers. We chin-stroke often and try to figure out how to take over the world. If we ever joined forces and did a blog or a radio show or a book--we'd be dangerous. For real. But we don't get down like that. It's almost like when we leave the house, we morph into different characters---Clark Kent and Lois Lane, giving each other a sly smile from across a crowded industry party. Damn. I'm digressing like mad. My point: I am a fiercely independent, hear-me-roar kind of woman. If TH says something I don't like, maybe something like how long are these dishes going to sit here. I might snap back and say, until you wash them. You know. That kind of thing. One thing I've never given much thought to is how my look is perceived by TH. I'm a jeans and flats kind of girl. A Little Black Dress when I have to. I do like a sky high stiletto. But that's about as far into fashion I go. And TH is on the same level with me. Rugby  and denim during the week. With the occasional fly blazer combo. And cleans up very nice when necessary. So. This weekend was his class reunion. Y'all know what I was thinking. What the heck am I going to wear? My shallow side took over. My husband was popular in high school. Cute girlfriends. All that. I was a mousy geek whose hair was rarely done. And I'm just coming into my own as far as confidence and fashion sense. So, I looked in my closet to see what I would wear. I wanted to look exceptional. Not just nice. For once in my life, I wanted to make an entrance. I wanted people to nudge each other and say, who is that? Did I already mention that I understand that I was being shallow? Okay. Good. Cause it gets worse. Here's the dress I pulled out of my closet:

Chimere Norris, also known as @chimerenmktg in Twitterville, has tagged me in an interesting your-turn-to-spill-the-beans social media experiment. I'm supposed to share ten honest things about myself. And then tag seven bloggers I love, respect and admire. Whenever these sorts of things go around, I usually hit delete as fast as I can. Facebook and Twitter make us transparent. Do we need to go that extra mile and tell random people 25 more things about ourselves? I talk about my weight, my clothes, my family and my work right here on this blog. Why on earth would I share ten (more) honest things about myself? Eh. Why not. Herewith. 10 (brutally) honest things about myself. (Read it quick. I'm so deleting this post tomorrow.) Thank you to Chimere for tagging me. And at the end of my post, I'm tagging seven others I'd like to hear from.

So. Each month, I edit a relationship column for a national, women's lifestyle publication. Sometimes I write the column myself. If I'm extremely swamped, I assign the story out to another freelance writer. It's one of my many hustles. And I like that I have to think like an editor. It helps me when I'm trying to pitch articles to other editors. In my line of work as an editor, I deal with publicists, usually for authors who have written books about relationship issues or therapists, professors and other folks who are experts in relationship stuff. There are many times that I find myself staring at a deadline and I have all my interviews completed for a story--but I haven't found a relationship expert to interview. So I'm scrambling like mad, emailing folks to try and secure someone for my column. (I'm getting to a point here.) It would make sense to prepare for this in advance and line up interviews with several authors, professors and therapists. But I don't do that. I scramble at deadline time. Most editors do. So. November 4th, I get an email.

[caption id="attachment_3749" align="alignnone" width="225" caption="her hair was flat when she woke up. I fluffed it with a dot of mousse. That's it. Headband. Out the door. "][/caption] [caption id="attachment_3750" align="alignnone" width="225" caption="Team Zahara!"][/caption] [caption id="attachment_3751" align="alignnone" width="225" caption="I still feel weird having Tog's hair "out." But boy...