"So You Do Understand..."
Ah, the sweet sound of panic as my boss's boss's boss tries to explain to me why I really want to think very hard (No shit, Sherlock) about the viability of supporting myself (uh-huh...) without the security blankie of a full-time job (...really?) and so on and so forth. He has a brother in the business, you see. And naive little moi, you know, dizzy with the flush of success and all... well, I shouldn't be too hasty.
So I sit there holding the phone, smiling blithely and biting my tongue. Grandmothers, I'm thinking. Egg-sucking, I'm thinking. Do not teach.
See, we had ourselves some developments since I went all Christopher Walken on their asses and put the big gun of resignation to my head... Come on. Click. Make me do it. Click. You think I'm scared? Click. Give me one good reason why I - BANG! Oopsy.
So, my boss's boss comes back from holiday to find the letter on his desk. He gets on the phone to his boss, and Finance, and Human Resources and whatever zombie-fucking minions of Mammon are involved in the chain of command between me and a decent bloody wage. And it turns out there's this pay review proposal that they've been sitting on for the last five months, and, well, it was on hold because of a larger-scale wages review, and, hey, coincidentally, you know, that's just finished and if you can hold off for a few days, yes? a week, hmm? maybe a couple of weeks? cause we don't want to make any promises until it's signed off by the arch-fiends of the board, you see... well, anyway, there might be a pay-rise for you. Backdated to April.
Which would be nice.
Which is how I end up with my boss's boss's boss on the phone, congratulating me on the book deal, apologising for not being able to give me a figure just yet and - heh - explaining the trials and tribulations of the writing lifestyle. To a writer. Like, did you know that publishers tend to take on new writers and try them out for 2 or 3 books first? That they may not buy the next novel if those ones don't succeed? Well, fuck me up the ass with a candlestick! Suddenly my dream comes crashing down. Suddenly my plans seem just crazy. Me stoopid. Me no think good.
Anyhoo, being a fluttery-eyelashed young ingénue, obviously I've taken their level-headed advice to heart (it's all purely in my interests, after all, nothing to do with them trying to push my fear button, nothing to do with them playing up the threat of financial insecurity to try and make me chicken out... perish the thought!) and I've temporarily withdrawn my resignation, pending some details on a possible pay rise. I wouldn't want to be rash, after all, and, who knows, they might come through with a pay level that actually approximates the fucking market rate. I have my doubts, but fuck it, a shite raise backdated to April could be a nice wee bonus.
And then I can smile, say thank you very much, and then resign.
Labels: Adventures of a Scribbler