Yes, It’s Stupid, but It’s My Stupid

Today I traveled all the way across London to get my paws on a couple of reams of 8.5 x 11 paper, and paid 4 cents a sheet for the privilege (that would be versus 1 cent at home). Why? Because I had the fetishistic need to see my novel manuscript printed out on the familiar blockiness of US Letter before sending it off to the agent who responded to my query with a request for the ms. I could have sent it on A4, the paper with the Mac-clever design and PC market share. Or I could have asked S to print and mail it from the States (as indeed I did, until my inner control freak put the kibosh on what would have been a smart and economical move).

But no. It was just too weird. I wanted to sign the cover letter, and print the SASE, and slip the chunky little manuscript into the envelope myself. And if that meant crossing this town to cradle a thousand sheets of quirky paper in my arms, then so be it. Piss-poor aspect ratios be damned.

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