WHEW.

I'm 2.5 hours away from my first real interview, on radio, with a rising program that gets talked about in national publications. Cool shit. Bad nerves. But I've eaten a burger now, or, well, 2/3s of a BIG burger, and I'm calming down a little. Mental note: Don't starve self when nerves are bad.

I had the smarts to ask for the questions in advance, and let that be a tip to you, if ever you can get interview questions in advance, then do so. Most people don't mind, unless it's Barbara Walters and she plans to railroad you into admitting something nasty, of course.

It's official... my full name will be public knowledge after this. Eeps. Not like it's not already, if you do a single Google search for Scribe Called Steff, you get my full name thanks to a fucking moron who outed me last fall, by mistake.

I mean, the last thing you need when you're job searching is to have your full name attached to a sex blog. Y'know? God, what a twit. But I figure, what the hell. Actually, I was torn, and the Guy advised Full Disclosure. Probably a smarter move career-wise, meaning with writing -- not job searching.

I think I plan to go into the bathroom at 11:30 and do full makeup so I feel like a Rockstar before the midnight interview takes place. It's like smiling when you're on the phone -- sometimes it's just perceptible, you know?

Anyhow. WHEW. I'll be glad when it's over, but y'know what? I secretly hope they like me so much they bring me on back.