For the past month or so I haven't attended our weekly publishers’ conference call. This is not for wont of being there, but rather that I no longer receive the meetings on my calendar or meeting agendas in my email a day prior. On Friday I received a whopping six invites to meetings, mostly publishers conference calls, by way of Linda, our Publishing Coordinator, but no agendas. Today is my first meeting and I'm sitting here, scheduling my week and writing a post in my spiral bound booklet from Sessions of last year; with the blue, futuristic man unraveling on the cover.
Heather and Joe attempt to man-handle the publishing schedule for the next few weeks, the schedule that Tom used to rule and fielded questions over. They both tried to hide their relative obliviousness to the subject matter as Heather stammered over words, repeating herself several times over, scratching the red stress rash she was developing under her chin. Joe, on the other hand, sits, arms crossed on the table looking like a frosh-security guard amidst the fog outside and what lays thick in the room.
I'm asked three questions, all off-the-cuff and unrelated to the subject matter, an obvious sign that Heather is trying to slow the meeting down and relinquish control over what is uncontrollable. Her fingers flip her pencil around in her right hand.
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