In my never-ending quest for freelance writing assignments I had the opportunity speak with an editor today regarding a story I’d like to do for her magazine. As we were chatting, she asked, “Are you in L.A.?” No, I replied, I’m in Ohio.
“Oh.” She sounded genuinely perplexed.
So I continued to pitch my idea, and eventually we came to the conversation ending exchange of contact information. As I’m dictating my cell phone, she again asks, “Now where is that?” and I repeat, “Ohio.” After inquiring to the specific region of the state, she says, “I think you’re the only person I know who lives in Ohio.”
She then goes on to inquire, “What’s in Ohio?”
I say, “In what context?” becoming a bit confused myself.
“Oh you know, travel destinations and such.”
Suddenly I’ve become the PR department for my home state and I attempt to concoct something reasonably exciting and substantial for this woman.
It’s only after I hang up the phone and begin to ruminate a bit that I wonder if I should be insulted in some manner.
Then it dawns on me that this is no elitist snob from NYC or LA (I would expect such derision from them, actually) This publication is headquartered in Nashville, Tennesee.
So tell me Editor, what’s in Tennessee? Besides the Jack Daniels distillery and a bunch of rednecks still sporting the confederate flag outside their domicile?
The difference is – I’d never pose the question.