The Write Stuff

It’s been a long week, and I hate when that happens on a Tuesday. The problem is that my boss wants me to more of a cynic.

Those who know me may be thinking, “But if you were to get any more cynical and morose, we worry your hands would shrivel up and fall off.”

Yes, there is that. But apparently my taste for the macabre and sarcastic is too often found in life, and not often enough on the page. Apparently, my nonfiction comes off sounding too chipper. Too “PR”. I’m just too fucking nice.

Who would have thought?

I find it distasteful to tell my editors that being ‘nice’ is faster than being cynical, or that I’m trying to finish my assignment in twenty minutes so I can go back to writing something I actually care about. And anyways, there is only so much one can say about lawn turf and breast enhancement surgery.

But how do you say, “when I was a kid and wanted to be a writer, I didn’t understand that I would have to spend a great portion of my time writing about things I don’t care about, in order to afford to spend a small portion of the time writing about- oh, my opus. My life’s work.”

My editor doesn’t give a shit about any of that. “Be skeptical!” she says instead.

I am, apparently, making the president of a “Power of Positive Thinking” company come off as sounding overly positive. Nevermind the fact that she really is pretty happy most of the time. She prefaces her various emails to me as “Happy Monday!” “Happy Friday!” and she’s already sent me a free copy of her book in the mail.

How skeptical can I be? The chick eats her Wheaties for breakfast. I get it.

But readers don’t care about genuine happy endings. They want to know that the CEO of Sunshine and Rainbow Land actually enjoys snorting cocaine off the overly bronzed stomachs of strippers in between clients. Even if she doesn’t. So fine. I insert skepticism and my editor loves me. All the readers of the entirely unpopular audience-bereft publication I write for will be thrilled. My check for $0.99 is practically in the mail.

I tell myself that’s why, when the LA Times writer I just interviewed gets upset that she will come off sounding like a green-behind-the-ears cub scout in the upcoming issue of our magazine, I can look her straight and the eye and say, “I’m sorry, you said you enjoy NPR and Crossfire was your favorite political debate forum? I could have sworn you said you said it was the Care Bears, and the pink one was your favorite. My mistake. My mistake.”

I wonder if she'll still introduce me to Joel Stein.