I didn’t mind not getting paid but I did so much beautiful writing and they never printed any of it. That was very frustrating, and I wanted to scream, but I found a different way to get it out of my system.
I was lucky. There aren’t many major American daily newspapers left, and I got an unpaid internship at one of them. While it wouldn’t help pay off my big debt to Columbia, I’d be getting some great experience and exposure.
I may be a newbie, but I can write. And even though I was assigned to the less-than-glamorous job of writing obituaries for still living (and healthy) celebrities, I wrote my heart out. Singers, politicians, business leaders and others, I wrote about them all. As the summer wore on, however, I grew grumpy and hot and tired and I really wanted to see some of my work actually appear in the paper.
But nobody I wrote about died. I decided to move things along.
I’m petite, blond and, well…attractive. Nobody suspected a thing at the big charity event. I dressed nice, looked important and easily slipped by the guards. The gun was small and I don’t have any experience with guns so I wounded three and only killed one. But that was enough.
Now I’m on death row drafting my own obituary. I’ll finally be in print. I wonder if I’ll get a byline. In either case, it’s immortality.