We open on a medium shot of our heroine sitting on the couch in the same spot in the middle she’s been sitting in for hours at a time for nearly a year now, with her laptop on her lap (hence the name), a pile of mysteries to her left and a snoozing cat to her right. She is muttering unintelligibly, though if one strained to listen one could pick up the words “blog,” “daily,” and “stupid.”
The camera pans around to the back of the couch so we’re looking over her shoulder, and we see what’s on her monitor. She’s using the Google Chrome browser (despite having ranted about never using it again a few days ago, she’s come around again because she likes how Chrome knows how much she appreciates opening new pages in tabs instead of windows, and it doesn’t ask her to log in every time she tries to visit Facebook. Plus she likes the home page with its thumbnails of recently visited pages that she can simply click on again to visit. She may have been wrong about this Google Chrome thing and will once again welcome her new Google Overlords) with a number of different tabs open. The active tab is WordPress; she’s blogging. But the camera picks up, faintly, what’s on the other tabs: “Web Editor Job in New Y” “Freelance Writing Jobs & W,” “Online Editor,” “Online Writer,” “Freelance Copy Editor.”
It occurs to our heroine that she should start writing her cover letters as though they are Choose Your Own. Because she’s 90% sure that they don’t get read at all, or that they don’t get read past the first sentence, so why not make that first sentence an invitation to read more, or not, whatevs, instead of writing letters carefully individualized to each company. Even the ones that don’t tell her who they are. (She really hates that.)
She considers finding an artist to help her sketch out this idea, because it amuses her.
So she’s going to spend an hour or two on a Friday night sending out resumes that won’t get read until Monday. But she also needs to get her blog post in for the day because she made a commitment to herself and right now it feels like it’s all she has. [Dramatic score by Michael Giacchino swells.]
The camera picks up a close up shot of the bags under her eyes before she punches the cameraman in the face.
Then she closes the laptop, puts it back on the coffee table, and gets up. She walks purposefully over to the dining room hutch, picks up the bottles of gin and vermouth, and starts to mix a very strong martini.
(aaaaaaaand scene.)
Related posts:
- Aha! I think. There are a couple reasons I’ve been quiet over here,...