August 13, 2003 @ 3:24 p.m.
Writing, Editing and the Party Whoo Woman

After many weeks of antici...pation, the co-ordinator of my fiction writing class has finally gotten around to deciding who will be the editors of the class anthology I was telling you about so long ago.

I didn't get the job.

I am, however, on the committee for organisating the book launch, which was my second preference after editing. And, as Stuart pointed out, this means I get to be involved in a fun way with a lot less stress than if I'd been one of the editors. Now I get to contribute to the anthology, get my name in the acknowledgements (hopefully a story in there too somewhere), without any real interruptions to my hedonistic lifestyle.

(Note to self: cultivate hedonistic lifestyle.)

I'm less disappointed than I thought I would be. I think I partly psyched myself out of wanting to be an editor during the waiting period (well, between study, work, a you're-so-going-to-Hell-for-that sex life and taking over the world, I do have a lot on my plate). Which isn't an entirely bad thing, because now I have no must-fall-on-own-sword type feelings over the fact that I didn't get to take on the editing position. This paragraph certainly has a lot of words-strung-together-with-hyphens bits. Heh.

True to my usual behaviour, though, I'm trying in vain to determine where I went wrong, what made me less eligible for the position than the people who did, in fact, get it. I think my fatal flaw was not mentioning this journal on my list of published writings. I reckon my lecturer would have been pretty impressed by it: "Wow, she can talk about her tits a lot and she broke a bed while having sex with her boyfriend! She is SO what we're looking for in an anthology editor!"

In other writing-related news, I received a letter today letting me know that a story I submitted to a literary competition failed to get short-listed. Between that and the editing thing, I'm feeling pretty damn talentless right now. I get looked over for editing a writing class anthology, I don't even get short-listed in a competition, much less win and get published. It looks like the only "writer" elements I've got down pat so far are the alcoholism and womanising.

In less self-pity (and alcohol)-soaked news, I'm getting back into the gym again after kind of wussing out for a while. The pilates is going swimmingly, and I'm doing a few other classes. I went to Fitball last night (various stretches, excercises and weights incorporating, as the name suggests, the use of those giant fitballs). I hadn't done a class with that particular instructor before, and while she was nice, I didn't like her as much as the other instructor. Her class was more difficult, for one thing, and she didn't explain some of the moves very well despite being aware that she had a lot of novices in the class. She was also one of those zero-body-fat types who tend to put me in mind of a whippet in workout gear. This was annoying at first, and just plain daunting when I found out she has a one-year-old daughter. That's just wrong, and also makes me feel even more like an unco-ordinated sea mammal.

But worst of all was the great big smile she kept on for the duration of the class, and her tendency to yell out "Party! Whoo!" and "Come on, guys, this is like a great party!" during some of the more difficult exercises. I'm sorry, but getting all sweaty while (wo)manhandling enormous balls isn't my idea of a great party. Wait. Hang on a sec. That's exactly my idea of a great party, what am I saying?

There was also a girl near me who amused me greatly. Her only concession to the fact that she was going to be exercising were her (designer, sweetie) leggings and sneakers. Apart from that, she was wearing one of those "trendy" singlet tops with "Punk Rules OK" across the front in pink lettering, which kept slipping off her shoulders and revealing what turned out to be a highly impractical (for exercise purposes) lace bra. She also had on a cosmetic counter's worth of makeup. I noticed throughout the class that she seemed to be putting very little effort into actually working out, and unlike me and the rest of the class, hadn't broken into a sweat by the end of it. She would have saved herself a lot of time and effort if she'd just worn a shirt that said "I'm here to meet boys!" and gone upstairs to the weight room instead.

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