Query: a college paper

A reader writes:

Dear GWGW,

As a full time college student, its hard to find time to write all these papers. I need your help in copping with this unrealistic workload. Quite frankly, I feel like I am disappearing under a mountain of assignments that not even Mercury could hold atop his shoulders. Why, just this week I have to somehow get myself to 3 different lectures and take nots the whole time! On top of that, the one lecture is on Thursday 7:15-10 p.m., when I have 2 tickets to see Death Cab for Cutie at the Student center. I know! This treatment is totally inhumane! The stress is seriously putting my guts on fire.

Here is what I would like you to help with. My Intro to University class has a paper due about time management. It's due soon but I will need to get back to you about the actual date because my syllabus got messed up when my roommate dropped his bong on it and it broke. It was a really nice bong too that his sister got for him when she was in the Peace Corps in Japan, where they smoke tons of weed and also drink their own urine as some sort of cleansing ritual. I tried that once but I didn't like it, although my roommate said it was because I drank it out of a stainless steel travel mug, and uric acid reacts in a negative way with the metal. If I try it again I need to use either glass or nonreactive pottery, but not cast iron. It needs to be 750-1,000 words long and include at least 3 references (references from the stuff in the library too, not from wikipedia or Facebook).

For your help I am willing to part with 1 of my Death Cab tickets for Thursday, but we can't go together, in case my ex girlfriend sees me. Well, if your really good looking I guess it would be ok. If you send me a picture I will let you know if we can go together.

Luke Stork,
college student
clas of 2010

Sigh. Do your own damn homework.

A day in the life, part the second

The door closes behind the departing tech writer. I smile. This will be an easy job. Due at the end of the week or he can't take his scheduled vacation...a Carribean cruise. For singles. I daresay he fell behind on this project because of spending too much work time on the net looking at, well, "inappropriate" sites. Not the first time one of my work-at-home clients has had that problem.

He's left me with two CDs (Note: CDs!). One contains the manual he's almost completed, all his background information, and an actual project plan. The other contains recorded demos. Oh, I do love tech writers. All I have to do is finish his PowerPoint training presentations. All in a day's work. I smile in satisfaction.

Then my eye catches the floppy disk left by Humbar. My good mood dissipates. I might as well read the manuscript now; putting it off won't make it any better.

Chapter One

My mother was committed to a psychiatric hospital for a few days when she was 18.

Oh, dear god in heaven. Humbar is getting worse! Has he started drinking? What kind of first sentence is that? I read on.

But her father had her released. Something about insurance not paying for it. Then she met my dad and they ran off and got married. I was born in 1973, the oldest child. Then my brothers came along in 1975 and 1978. Mom and Dad loved them more. They were boys. Mom and Dad kept me in a cage. I don’t know why.

I sigh and wonder what it is, after all, that attracts me to this job. I should keep reading, get acquainted with the whole story, but I can't help it: I open a new file, this one formatted correctly (unlike Humbar's) and start typing.

I sat pressed against the bars of my cage, as near to the Christmas tree as I could get. Mom had just turned on the lights, and the sparkles of the bright colours from the tinsel made me smile. I hid that smile behind my hand. If Mom saw that I was happy, She would throw the cover back over the cage, and I wouldn’t be able to watch my brothers open their gifts.

They were still young enough to believe in Santa Claus, but I knew better. There couldn’t be a Santa Claus, because if there was, I wouldn’t live in this cage; I’d live in a fairy castle somewhere far, far away.

All right. Certainly not the final product, but good enough to be getting on with for now. Fearing my eyes will be bleeding long before I finish, I read on.

Query: letter writing assistance

A reader asks:

Could you help me write a letter. I'm lost for words when it comes to letter writing. (Ironically, my friends say I talk too much.) Anyway, back to the letter, I want to tell my boss what I think of him before I leave next Friday. The truth is, he knows nothing about his job, he's unfair, and thinks the company can't run without him. I know differently.....well most of the staff know diferently. So could you help me word it correctly?

Ah, yes. The useless, good-for-nothing boss. Doubtless a fine example of the Peter Principle.

Unfortunately for you, you are corresponding with someone who once queried their boss, "Who died and made you dictator?" Aloud. For real. Any wonder I am now self-employed? Employee/employer relations are not my strong suit. (Do not ask my contractor on the subcontinent about this. Do not even mention this subject came up.)

If you have a memoir to be written and are having trouble with your ghostwriter, send them to me. If you have an encroaching deadline for a documentation project, stop by for a visit. If the proposal for your next non-fiction tome is giving you fits, I'm here for you, my dear. But begone with your business letters. They don't pay enough and I have more important projects to work on.

A day in the life, part the first

So today, I'm meeting with a client--one of my regulars--when I sense someone approaching. A tech writer. You can always tell the tech writers; something about their stride (precise) and their stance (nervous) gives them away.

Keeping only half my attention on the client before me, I watch the tech writer sidle down the alley. I can feel his heartbeat quicken; I can smell his agitation; I can see him look from side to side, hoping to find my door and not to be seen by anyone who knows him.

With a flick of a finger, a motion that goes unnoticed by the small, fat man cowering on the other side of my desk, I illuminate the door for my new customer. He puts a hesitant hand on the knob, and after a last sidelong glance in either direction, he opens the door and slips in. He jumps a little when the latch clicks behind him. I smile.

"All right, all right," I interrupt my client's tedious tirade about his current subject (who is, I daresay, twice as smart as he is), "I understand what you need this time. When's it due?"

"Five weeks from tomorrow," he says, his voice nasal and snivelling.

I stand and tower over the man. "Very well," I say, and I hold out a hand. He hands me a floppy disk. A floppy disk, for god's sake! He's had a year to get this book done, he hasn't completed it, and it's small enough to fit on a floppy. I roll my eyes. "Go now. I'll contact you when the job is finished."

With a pathetic little bow, he turns away, opens the door to the outer office, and plods out. He brushes past the tech writer, not apologizing when he bumps him, and leaves. Good riddance.

I give my new client a welcoming smile and hold out my hand. "What can I do for you today, my friend?" I ask as I gesture for him to come into my office and take a seat.

He looks back at the door, which has now closed behind my departed client. "Who's that?"

"Ah. That's Humbar Procter. You haven't heard of him?" The tech writer shakes his head. "Well, no, I suppose you wouldn't have. He's a ghostwriter. Or bills himself as such. Really, though, his writing is rubbish. In the end, he brings his projects to me to finish for him." I hold up the floppy disk, then toss it onto my desk.

I return to my antique leather chair, lean back, and examine the new client before me. He's a regular-looking chap, but then, the tech writers always are. Clean-cut, clean clothes, just basically clean. I do like getting jobs from tech writers, even if they are few and far between.

I repeat my first question. "What can I do for you today?"