Pitching into the ether

Currently I am writing emails which go a bit like:

‘I’m awfully sorry to trouble you, but I’d really like to write for you. I hereby offer up my services in return for magic beans, so you needn’t worry about squeezing your pitiful budgets. I’ll do the crap you don’t want to do. Don’t have room? Never mind, I’ll sit on the floor. What’s that? You think you might need a toenail trim? I REALLY hope to hear back from you.’

In my head I am writing:

Dear [insert name of editor who’s managed to get so big for their boots that they just do tweeting @celebrities all day long]

I have been slogging it out in the farcical world they call journalism for three years now, in a bid to form some semblance of a career. Over this period, I have e-mailed you on a fortnightly basis, and am yet to receive a reply. I have seen your face – your smiley, happy I’ve-got-a-job face. I have heard your words down the telephone: “oh, we’re always looking for ideas – that sounds great, just send them through when they come up”.

Tell me, is it that I am unable to string a sentence together? Is it that my ideas reek of shit? Or do you just detest my vibes? I would rather hear that, than the rude silence you dispense so often.

Come all ye dickheads, just hit Reply.

Worst wishes,

Laura Goodman
Freelance nobody