Surrender Dorothy

Yesterday, I sat down and wrote 2,000 words of a 3,000 word profile that is due today. The main subject of said profile had promised an interview this afternoon. No problem, I thought, I'll just do the entire story based on interviews with this person's family, friends, work associates and others and then stitch in quotes from him here and there. It will be beautiful!

This is the first time I've ever approached a story this way. I thought, that's cool. No problem! This is how the best profiles are written, right? Talk to everyone around a subject, then talk to the subject. Right? Then my editor called and said that if I can get more access to the subject, then the story will be better, and we'll push the deadline back. No problem! So I got all geared up to charm the subject, ("just be yourself," my editor gushed.)

Fast forward to this morning. The kids are simultaneously screaming like a yeti and saying, "I want candy! I want candy! I want candy!" When the subject's secretary calls and says he's had a family emergency and the interview is off.

Looking at my 2,000 words, I am thinking, it's good. But it's not a complete work of art. It's just pieces, and it lacks soul. I've really got to spend more time with this person. But how? My editor urges me to call the subject on his cell phone. "Just be yourself." he says.

The kids are having a tough day. Charlotte's about to cut a tooth. Ryan's had it with the time I've already spent on the phone today. I tell my father-in-law that the interview with the subject is off, so he doesn't have to take the kids. The kids get more antsy and fussy. My husband calls. "Hello, Hell speaking!" I answer with a psychotic ring to my voice.

Charlotte finally collapses in a heap. Ryan asks for a story. I sit on the couch with him and we read "Winnie the Pooh." He is a warm puppy in my arms dressed for summer in just a diaper. I smell his fine hair. Really breathe it in. I say, okay. I'll just be myself.

The phone rings. It's the subject. I ask him a few questions, then he asks me how close in age my kids are. I tell him how I feel like I am living inside a washing machine. This is my first story in 13 months. "It'll get easier," he says. He's a father of four. We talk. We click. He says "What can I do for you?"

Now I know I'll have to start over on the story. Access is granted. This is going to be a completely different story. I'll just be myself.