Our daily production meetings are going quite well. Yesterday we caught a big, gaping hole in editorial calendar workings. Mike, Robert Ray and I worked it out. Felt good. I wrote up a cartoonist guideline and two rejection letters to cartoonists (this was difficult because I started out as a cartoonist and hated rejection form letters and here I am writing ours! Ironic, eh?).
Abby knocked out an O.K. Corral postcard for April issue. It looks good and we are cooking. Got a letter from a former editor, demanding a retraction for the Butch Cassidy issue. More on that later.
Came home at six, started the ‘49, pulled it out and hosed it down, put it back. Then walked down to the creek and found saguaro ribs and hauled them back up to house (place in gate). Did a quick felt-tip pen sketch of a vaquero wearing a sugarloaf sombrero. Has promise. Need to develope.
Went to bed and read Vanity Fair, and a great piece on the history of Saturday Night Live. I didn’t know Lorriane Newman was snorting heroin, Chevy was such an ass, and they made such little money. I think the writers were making something like $375 a week (in New York!) and the players were making $750 a show, and only $2,000 a show in the third season. It’s the media myth: we assume because we see somebody in the media they are rich. What’s really ridiculous, is I’ve been doing this for thirty years and I’m still shocked.
As I was reading I got the inspiration to write down the following: “I was in a car going very fast. I thought I would die. Actually, I did. Just not then.” Don’t know where that will fit, but it will.
"When you judge another, you do not define them, you define yourself."
—Wayne Dyer
