Before I became a full-time writer, I had a job counting envelopes. Not colored envelopes or large manila envelopes, mind you, but white #10 envelopes. I had to count them in series of a hundred. Even now I can see them flashing in my eyes as I flipped through them, blinding myself as though I were looking out at a blanket of snow polished by the sun with dilated pupils. At the end of the day I’d leave the office with spots in my eyes.
Why I had to count envelopes for six hours a day, I don’t know (I blocked out most of the experience, I do remember however that the temp agency who gave me the assignment thought it was a perfect introduction to the work world for a recent college graduate &ndash which was cruel as well as delusional); however, I did learn how to cope while I was there and the other day jobs I’ve had. This is how:
1) I threw away the statement: “I’ll be happy when…” Sure I would have been happier if my coworker had stopped adding her pile to mine or I had left that place (screaming in terror) after only an hour of torture. But I needed the money so I fought to be happy about it. I made sure to put the money I earned to good use. Not only was I saving a large chunk for a rainy day and my eventual freedom, but I also traveled to places, bought books I needed (How to Work with People You Can’t Stand was especially helpful) and attended writing workshops. Working with a purpose makes life easier. When you just work to survive, life can be very painful.
2) I didn’t label myself. I once worked in the complaint department of a hospital (a place to which I affectionately refer to as Hell on Earth). When people asked me what I did, I didn’t say I was a lowly clerk working towards a Master’s in Masochism. I said I was a temp. Even when I had a permanent job, I said I was a temp because I knew any situation I was in was only temporary. I was a free agent, nobody owned me. We are all free agents. Bosses can fire us, but we too can walk out the door. I never let myself feel like a prisoner.
3) I stayed away from the gossip mill. It’s fun really. I love stories and gossips tell the best (of course I was also aware that they were talking about me, but oh well) unfortunately, they are a waste of energy. Gossiping about the crappy boss, social climbers, backstabbers and butt kissers is good time poorly spent. Yes, offices have a great cast of characters to talk about, but spending your lunch break complaining all day is not good for the spirit. Take a walk, listen to music, you’re at your present job only temporarily and complaining about being there won’t make you feel any better about yourself or your situation. Remember you’re a temp - your future looks bright. Most of the gossips and complainers will still be there years later, older and more miserable. I know. I’ve gone back. It’s rather sad really.
4) Do your best. I hated counting envelopes. At times I would well up with tears at the thought of facing another day (I did that with most of my day jobs to be truthful); however I was one of the fastest counters there. I made it into a game and set challenges for myself. When you do a good job you are doing yourself a service and things will be pleasant. Work to please yourself. I’ve worked in customer service and I know people can be bleeding obnoxious; however, if you don’t like people, please don’t work in this department. (Yes, I’m speaking to everyone at fast food restaurants, retailers and health care providers. Learn how to smile!)
5) Come up with an escape plan. I don’t believe in endless suffering. If you have an abusive boss or your job is giving your headaches and ulcers, Leave It. I don’t care what kind of money you’re making. Ask for a demotion or start looking in the Want Ads. No job is worth your health. I walked off one job that was completely demoralizing.
6) Live your secret life NOW. At any job I was on I pretended I was an author who was there doing research for my next book. It helped to make the atmosphere more interesting. The woman who ate my lunch (damn those blasted office fridges) and pretended not to know it became a character I poisoned; a boss that liked to make fun of my name became a hobo with a severe speech impediment. I imagined how I would write my autobiography, I would practice my answers for when I was interviewed on TV. My imaginary life made my reality much more exciting. Try it; you’ll be surprised where your imagination can take you.
Sometimes we have to do things we don’t like, but they don’t have to be an agony. I had many jobs that I couldn’t stand, but I knew they were only temporary. Remember: This too shall pass, and your future looks bright.
Before I became a full-time writer, I had a job counting envelopes. Not colored envelopes or large manila envelopes, mind you, but white #10 envelopes. I had to count them in series of a hundred. Even now I can see them flashing in my eyes as I flipped through them, blinding myself as though I were looking out at a blanket of snow polished by the sun with dilated pupils. At the end of the day I’d leave the office with spots in my eyes.
Why I had to count envelopes for six hours a day, I don’t know (I blocked out most of the experience, I do remember however that the temp agency who gave me the assignment thought it was a perfect introduction to the work world for a recent college graduate &ndash which was cruel as well as delusional); however, I did learn how to cope while I was there and the other day jobs I’ve had. This is how:
1) I threw away the statement: “I’ll be happy when…” Sure I would have been happier if my coworker had stopped adding her pile to mine or I had left that place (screaming in terror) after only an hour of torture. But I needed the money so I fought to be happy about it. I made sure to put the money I earned to good use. Not only was I saving a large chunk for a rainy day and my eventual freedom, but I also traveled to places, bought books I needed (How to Work with People You Can’t Stand was especially helpful) and attended writing workshops. Working with a purpose makes life easier. When you just work to survive, life can be very painful.
2) I didn’t label myself. I once worked in the complaint department of a hospital (a place to which I affectionately refer to as Hell on Earth). When people asked me what I did, I didn’t say I was a lowly clerk working towards a Master’s in Masochism. I said I was a temp. Even when I had a permanent job, I said I was a temp because I knew any situation I was in was only temporary. I was a free agent, nobody owned me. We are all free agents. Bosses can fire us, but we too can walk out the door. I never let myself feel like a prisoner.
3) I stayed away from the gossip mill. It’s fun really. I love stories and gossips tell the best (of course I was also aware that they were talking about me, but oh well) unfortunately, they are a waste of energy. Gossiping about the crappy boss, social climbers, backstabbers and butt kissers is good time poorly spent. Yes, offices have a great cast of characters to talk about, but spending your lunch break complaining all day is not good for the spirit. Take a walk, listen to music, you’re at your present job only temporarily and complaining about being there won’t make you feel any better about yourself or your situation. Remember you’re a temp - your future looks bright. Most of the gossips and complainers will still be there years later, older and more miserable. I know. I’ve gone back. It’s rather sad really.
4) Do your best. I hated counting envelopes. At times I would well up with tears at the thought of facing another day (I did that with most of my day jobs to be truthful); however I was one of the fastest counters there. I made it into a game and set challenges for myself. When you do a good job you are doing yourself a service and things will be pleasant. Work to please yourself. I’ve worked in customer service and I know people can be bleeding obnoxious; however, if you don’t like people, please don’t work in this department. (Yes, I’m speaking to everyone at fast food restaurants, retailers and health care providers. Learn how to smile!)
5) Come up with an escape plan. I don’t believe in endless suffering. If you have an abusive boss or your job is giving your headaches and ulcers, Leave It. I don’t care what kind of money you’re making. Ask for a demotion or start looking in the Want Ads. No job is worth your health. I walked off one job that was completely demoralizing.
6) Live your secret life NOW. At any job I was on I pretended I was an author who was there doing research for my next book. It helped to make the atmosphere more interesting. The woman who ate my lunch (damn those blasted office fridges) and pretended not to know it became a character I poisoned; a boss that liked to make fun of my name became a hobo with a severe speech impediment. I imagined how I would write my autobiography, I would practice my answers for when I was interviewed on TV. My imaginary life made my reality much more exciting. Try it; you’ll be surprised where your imagination can take you.
Sometimes we have to do things we don’t like, but they don’t have to be an agony. I had many jobs that I couldn’t stand, but I knew they were only temporary. Remember: This too shall pass, and your future looks bright.
I found myself sitting in the HR department of one of the most famous companies in America. My ice queen soon to be boss wanted me and I knew it. After all, I had graduated from a pseudo impressive university and I looked really good in my Ann Klein suit. Problem was, I’d never worked a day in Corporate America and I had just turned fifty. Hard to teach an old dog new tricks but the bills were piling up and the only place my freedom loving artistic spirit had gotten me was down and out in New York City.
I was offered the job; mostly because the actress in me conjured up Sigourney Weaver in Working Girl, a dash of Faye Dunaway in Network and I performed a nifty little improv using the shrewd and sassy elegance of Judy Holiday and Melanie Griffith as rather impressive role models. My stunning performance worked and there I was, embraced by my new corporate family and occasionally loaned back out to the rest of society, my pet Pomeranian and my old disco buddies.
After filling the pages of my gratitude journal for at least six months, and thanking the universe for this rather prestigious position, the honeymoon wore off and I became increasingly shell shocked. My co-workers were very strange indeed. I didn’t feel that they were family at all, but that’s what having a job is called on the Planet Corporate: family. Oh, they like putting us in teams too. Teams connote competition and a great rah, rah spirit. In my old world they called it “opening night.” Here they call it “making goal.” As you can imagine, I was confused.
I had a hard time understanding these people. They talked about a lot of things that didn’t really interest me. When they weren’t obsessing on how low the sales numbers were, they were obsessing on the New York Jets, what to nuke for lunch and whether or not the Bachelor would chose the blonde or the tenacious little redhead. I was beginning to feel quite miserable. Why, the first time I heard I had a direct report I thought I was going to be writing up a presentation on how I was going to direct the Christmas play. The first time I was called a subordinate, I almost wept aloud. Jeez, if I wanted to be subordinate to anyone I would have married my ex.
Then I was told I was getting a performance review. Well, finally something to look forward to. I was happy at last. Surely, my calculated persona as a prisoner in pin stripes was impressive. Why, I learned to click down the hallowed halls of this very famous corporation in three inch heels. I found the perfect skirt length and kept my nails conservatively French tipped. I even talked numbers all day, like they were as important as season tickets to the Met, and I pretended to be in a constant state of urgency so my boss would think I was absolutely killing myself to make my sales goal.
Well, you could have knocked me over in a breath when I discovered that a performance review was actually based on whether or not I was selling anything. Disappointingly, my review was moderate to cold. I felt that I wanted to crawl under a rock and not emerge until I figured out how I could learn to care how much money my company made off the ninety percent of my life it was taking. My self esteem had taken an affront. Here I thought my humanity was more important.
So be it. I licked my wounds and went on like a good soldier. These people were expanding my sales goal wider than a middle age waist line, but still, I persisted. I plodded along, cursing my fate and trying to figure out if I’d enjoy driving a cab for a living.
Finally, some good news from the Planet of the Corporate: We were all going on a retreat. I joyously ran out to buy a yoga mat, karma sutra oil to share with colleagues, hot pink sweatpants and new Addidas. I couldn’t want to chant with my corporate family. I was ecstatic.
But then, the bomb fell. I was both surprised and appalled. My corporate family was thrusting me into a hotel room with another adult, asking me to share the spit and spittle of sleep, the intimacy of bodily woes and the loss of privacy on my frequent calls home to the dog walker. That did it. I rebelled. I wore the new Addidas and the hot pink sweats to their all day meetings on how to sell more stuff. I chanted enthusiastically during the power lunch and used some little book on cheese they gave me as a place mat for the very gooey award night dinner.
Wouldn’t you know it, I was written up. At first I thought I’d earned some good review on the little monologue I gave to the company president on corporate greed. Not so, I was put on probation and sent home to watch Oprah, the Secret and meditate on changing my life as I sat by the Hudson with my Pomeranian re-reading What Color Is Your Parachute.
After two weeks, I was back on the planet Corporate wondering how I’d get through it. I couldn’t quit, it was already going to take me two years to get out of the debt I’d accumulated relying on an income doing extra film work and occasional voice overs for pharmaceutical drug companies. I needed the damn job. But something had shifted for me during my little reprisal from the bull pen of consumption. Maybe it was Oprah, maybe the law of attraction really works. I sure was intending to alter my present state. And it happened just like that. I put all my efforts into seeing myself as a happy little puppy and lo and behold, I started writing a novel.
Once I began, the words just flowed. I wrote and I wrote till my little fingers twitched. My life was altered forever by that simple action. I now started to wake at five am with a passion I hadn’t felt in years. I threw myself at the keyboard for an hour or more. I filled my weekends weaving a story, creating characters that I couldn’t get enough of. My joy was abundant.
Wouldn’t you know it? The bull pen became tolerable. Even the ice queen melted a bit and the complicated hidden agendas of coworkers became insignificant. My head was filled with plot and character. Who cares who wants my head on a corporate silver platter? What cared I for corporate agendas when my chapters flowed off the page? I thought about nothing else. My sales numbers even increased, as did my tolerance for the ice queens and bully boys on the Planet Corporate. How strange it all was.
Now I have a book, actually several books. You see, I stole back my time. I found a place that I wanted to be. You might say I took back my soul to write. I would advise anyone out there who has found themselves on an alien planet, to follow their passion as well, even if it doesn’t get you back on the planet Earth right away, I can assure you that eventually, it will, one way or the other. You see, your freedom will come out of the creation and your joy is in action, not the inaction of just feeling miserable. Writing is a place no one can enter or soil with demands you may never reach and definitions that limit you. So find your book and write it. If you don’t, your Corporate family will become the title of your life, and the spirit who longs to fly free will loose touch with the words that might have been, and the key to the door not taken.
I found myself sitting in the HR department of one of the most famous companies in America. My ice queen soon to be boss wanted me and I knew it. After all, I had graduated from a pseudo impressive university and I looked really good in my Ann Klein suit. Problem was, I’d never worked a day in Corporate America and I had just turned fifty. Hard to teach an old dog new tricks but the bills were piling up and the only place my freedom loving artistic spirit had gotten me was down and out in New York City.
I was offered the job; mostly because the actress in me conjured up Sigourney Weaver in Working Girl, a dash of Faye Dunaway in Network and I performed a nifty little improv using the shrewd and sassy elegance of Judy Holiday and Melanie Griffith as rather impressive role models. My stunning performance worked and there I was, embraced by my new corporate family and occasionally loaned back out to the rest of society, my pet Pomeranian and my old disco buddies.
After filling the pages of my gratitude journal for at least six months, and thanking the universe for this rather prestigious position, the honeymoon wore off and I became increasingly shell shocked. My co-workers were very strange indeed. I didn’t feel that they were family at all, but that’s what having a job is called on the Planet Corporate: family. Oh, they like putting us in teams too. Teams connote competition and a great rah, rah spirit. In my old world they called it “opening night.” Here they call it “making goal.” As you can imagine, I was confused.
I had a hard time understanding these people. They talked about a lot of things that didn’t really interest me. When they weren’t obsessing on how low the sales numbers were, they were obsessing on the New York Jets, what to nuke for lunch and whether or not the Bachelor would chose the blonde or the tenacious little redhead. I was beginning to feel quite miserable. Why, the first time I heard I had a direct report I thought I was going to be writing up a presentation on how I was going to direct the Christmas play. The first time I was called a subordinate, I almost wept aloud. Jeez, if I wanted to be subordinate to anyone I would have married my ex.
Then I was told I was getting a performance review. Well, finally something to look forward to. I was happy at last. Surely, my calculated persona as a prisoner in pin stripes was impressive. Why, I learned to click down the hallowed halls of this very famous corporation in three inch heels. I found the perfect skirt length and kept my nails conservatively French tipped. I even talked numbers all day, like they were as important as season tickets to the Met, and I pretended to be in a constant state of urgency so my boss would think I was absolutely killing myself to make my sales goal.
Well, you could have knocked me over in a breath when I discovered that a performance review was actually based on whether or not I was selling anything. Disappointingly, my review was moderate to cold. I felt that I wanted to crawl under a rock and not emerge until I figured out how I could learn to care how much money my company made off the ninety percent of my life it was taking. My self esteem had taken an affront. Here I thought my humanity was more important.
So be it. I licked my wounds and went on like a good soldier. These people were expanding my sales goal wider than a middle age waist line, but still, I persisted. I plodded along, cursing my fate and trying to figure out if I’d enjoy driving a cab for a living.
Finally, some good news from the Planet of the Corporate: We were all going on a retreat. I joyously ran out to buy a yoga mat, karma sutra oil to share with colleagues, hot pink sweatpants and new Addidas. I couldn’t want to chant with my corporate family. I was ecstatic.
But then, the bomb fell. I was both surprised and appalled. My corporate family was thrusting me into a hotel room with another adult, asking me to share the spit and spittle of sleep, the intimacy of bodily woes and the loss of privacy on my frequent calls home to the dog walker. That did it. I rebelled. I wore the new Addidas and the hot pink sweats to their all day meetings on how to sell more stuff. I chanted enthusiastically during the power lunch and used some little book on cheese they gave me as a place mat for the very gooey award night dinner.
Wouldn’t you know it, I was written up. At first I thought I’d earned some good review on the little monologue I gave to the company president on corporate greed. Not so, I was put on probation and sent home to watch Oprah, the Secret and meditate on changing my life as I sat by the Hudson with my Pomeranian re-reading What Color Is Your Parachute.
After two weeks, I was back on the planet Corporate wondering how I’d get through it. I couldn’t quit, it was already going to take me two years to get out of the debt I’d accumulated relying on an income doing extra film work and occasional voice overs for pharmaceutical drug companies. I needed the damn job. But something had shifted for me during my little reprisal from the bull pen of consumption. Maybe it was Oprah, maybe the law of attraction really works. I sure was intending to alter my present state. And it happened just like that. I put all my efforts into seeing myself as a happy little puppy and lo and behold, I started writing a novel.
Once I began, the words just flowed. I wrote and I wrote till my little fingers twitched. My life was altered forever by that simple action. I now started to wake at five am with a passion I hadn’t felt in years. I threw myself at the keyboard for an hour or more. I filled my weekends weaving a story, creating characters that I couldn’t get enough of. My joy was abundant.
Wouldn’t you know it? The bull pen became tolerable. Even the ice queen melted a bit and the complicated hidden agendas of coworkers became insignificant. My head was filled with plot and character. Who cares who wants my head on a corporate silver platter? What cared I for corporate agendas when my chapters flowed off the page? I thought about nothing else. My sales numbers even increased, as did my tolerance for the ice queens and bully boys on the Planet Corporate. How strange it all was.
Now I have a book, actually several books. You see, I stole back my time. I found a place that I wanted to be. You might say I took back my soul to write. I would advise anyone out there who has found themselves on an alien planet, to follow their passion as well, even if it doesn’t get you back on the planet Earth right away, I can assure you that eventually, it will, one way or the other. You see, your freedom will come out of the creation and your joy is in action, not the inaction of just feeling miserable. Writing is a place no one can enter or soil with demands you may never reach and definitions that limit you. So find your book and write it. If you don’t, your Corporate family will become the title of your life, and the spirit who longs to fly free will loose touch with the words that might have been, and the key to the door not taken.
It comes along more frequently than not: The thought that you’re insane and should pursue a career that doesn’t stomp on your pride or demolish your ego. You have the hopes of fame and fortune to comfort you at times, but not often enough to keep doubt from gnawing at your mind.
Discouragement is a constant companion. You face rejections. You spend time, money and energy with no guarantee of financial gain (and if you’re published, you face rejections; spend time, money and energy with no guarantee of financial gain). You endure looks of healthy disdain from people when you reveal you’re a writer. If you’re a literary writer, you’re regarded with some awe; a genre author; however, is looked upon with the same reverence as a stripper.
At times like these, quitting seems like a sensible thing to do. I would encourage it, if you are constantly depressed and on the verge of madness. It isn’t worth your sanity and publishing isn’t an industry that is concerned with keeping you sane. Drinking may no longer be common among writers, but it certainly is a temptation.
If rejections make you want to bang your head against the wall, writing is painful and the thought of another damn story swimming in your head makes you nauseous - Stop. Now. If you can’t stop, there’s help. Here are five reasons to stay a writer:
You don’t have to submit your work. There’s no obligation for a writer to share their work with editors and critics (Emily Dickinson is a fine example) you can write for the pleasure of it. If you do wish to publicize your work, you can self-publish. However, you don’t need to be published to be a writer (I know I keep saying this, but I will continue to do so until I am believed). Validation is great, creation divine. Create, explore, indulge! Be free. Write.
For immortality. When you die, there is a distinct possibility that your unpublished works will be discovered, you’ll be proclaimed a genius, your books will be translated into many languages both live and dead, turned into a film every few decades and inspire legions of writers who are obscure and writing anyway. If you don’t write, there will be nothing to discover.
Revenge. Remember that teacher who bloodied your beloved essays with red marks? That scathing critique partner with ‘helpful advice?’ That insolent editor who didn’t even bother to send a form rejection, but scribbled ‘No thanks’ on your query? Well, write to show the bastards! Strong emotions are a great motivation to write. Write to prove them wrong.
We need stories. Naturally, literary snobs would beg to differ, thinking literature is being polluted by uneducated neophytes who have the audacity to write because they have the ability to type their names.
Fortunately, I find their opinions as necessary as Athletes’ foot. Therefore, I implore you to tell your tales in your voice. No copycats please. It doesn’t matter if your prose doesn’t ring like Jane Austen, echo like J. California Cooper, bellow like Mark Twain, sing like JK Rowling’s or linger like Anne Lamott’s. We need stories to survive. Help us.
You get to determine your success. Writing can afford you big and little successes. The poem that brought a smile to your friend’s face, the essay that saved the front page of the neighborhood newsletter, the short story that helped a lonely teenager through a hard time, the novel that opened someone’s mind to a new way of thinking.
Okay, so you may never hit the bestseller’s list, win a National Book Award or any award for that matter. Perhaps only the sky will know your gifts. You’re living a dream few people allow themselves to experience. They talk about writing–some very loudly–but few do it. The world bends to those who proclaim who they are without apology (okay it doesn’t actually bend, but it does bow a little).
Because you must. That’s reason enough for me. I don’t have a style or voice that many know and my work isn’t breaking any records. There are times I want to throw up my hands and say, “Enough! I quit!” And the world sighs with relief, and I sigh feeling in control of my future. I stand up from my desk determined never to return. Then a little voice says… “There was this woman who discovered she was married to the wrong man…”
It comes along more frequently than not: The thought that you’re insane and should pursue a career that doesn’t stomp on your pride or demolish your ego. You have the hopes of fame and fortune to comfort you at times, but not often enough to keep doubt from gnawing at your mind.
Discouragement is a constant companion. You face rejections. You spend time, money and energy with no guarantee of financial gain (and if you’re published, you face rejections; spend time, money and energy with no guarantee of financial gain). You endure looks of healthy disdain from people when you reveal you’re a writer. If you’re a literary writer, you’re regarded with some awe; a genre author; however, is looked upon with the same reverence as a stripper.
At times like these, quitting seems like a sensible thing to do. I would encourage it, if you are constantly depressed and on the verge of madness. It isn’t worth your sanity and publishing isn’t an industry that is concerned with keeping you sane. Drinking may no longer be common among writers, but it certainly is a temptation.
If rejections make you want to bang your head against the wall, writing is painful and the thought of another damn story swimming in your head makes you nauseous - Stop. Now. If you can’t stop, there’s help. Here are five reasons to stay a writer:
You don’t have to submit your work. There’s no obligation for a writer to share their work with editors and critics (Emily Dickinson is a fine example) you can write for the pleasure of it. If you do wish to publicize your work, you can self-publish. However, you don’t need to be published to be a writer (I know I keep saying this, but I will continue to do so until I am believed). Validation is great, creation divine. Create, explore, indulge! Be free. Write.
For immortality. When you die, there is a distinct possibility that your unpublished works will be discovered, you’ll be proclaimed a genius, your books will be translated into many languages both live and dead, turned into a film every few decades and inspire legions of writers who are obscure and writing anyway. If you don’t write, there will be nothing to discover.
Revenge. Remember that teacher who bloodied your beloved essays with red marks? That scathing critique partner with ‘helpful advice?’ That insolent editor who didn’t even bother to send a form rejection, but scribbled ‘No thanks’ on your query? Well, write to show the bastards! Strong emotions are a great motivation to write. Write to prove them wrong.
We need stories. Naturally, literary snobs would beg to differ, thinking literature is being polluted by uneducated neophytes who have the audacity to write because they have the ability to type their names.
Fortunately, I find their opinions as necessary as Athletes’ foot. Therefore, I implore you to tell your tales in your voice. No copycats please. It doesn’t matter if your prose doesn’t ring like Jane Austen, echo like J. California Cooper, bellow like Mark Twain, sing like JK Rowling’s or linger like Anne Lamott’s. We need stories to survive. Help us.
You get to determine your success. Writing can afford you big and little successes. The poem that brought a smile to your friend’s face, the essay that saved the front page of the neighborhood newsletter, the short story that helped a lonely teenager through a hard time, the novel that opened someone’s mind to a new way of thinking.
Okay, so you may never hit the bestseller’s list, win a National Book Award or any award for that matter. Perhaps only the sky will know your gifts. You’re living a dream few people allow themselves to experience. They talk about writing–some very loudly–but few do it. The world bends to those who proclaim who they are without apology (okay it doesn’t actually bend, but it does bow a little).
Because you must. That’s reason enough for me. I don’t have a style or voice that many know and my work isn’t breaking any records. There are times I want to throw up my hands and say, “Enough! I quit!” And the world sighs with relief, and I sigh feeling in control of my future. I stand up from my desk determined never to return. Then a little voice says… “There was this woman who discovered she was married to the wrong man…”