But will they respect me in the morning?

Why does trying to snag freelance jobs feel so much like dating?

It starts with the attraction thing. A fascinating job offer. An attractive pay rate. A come-hither call-to-action.

My eyebrows raise, my pulse increases.

I'm hooked.

So I scramble, trying to make myself as comely a writing wench as I can.

I dress up my resume, spiff up my clips, create the most incredible cover letter east of the Mississippi. And to make sure my target hottie knows I'm serious, I add plenty of methods to make the hunt as easy as pie. My phone number. My cell number. My email address. My blog address. My snail mail address.

Then, I send off my little "call me, we'll do lunch" packet and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Days pass. Flowers wilt on the windowsill. I rumple an embroidered handkerchief in my fingers. The candle burns down to a grotesquely-shaped blob.

Finally, the email comes.

It's from an automatic source. It starts off: "Dear Applicant".

My stomach plummets to my curled toes.

R-E-J-E-C-T-E-D.

I read it thrice.

I dust myself off.

I find something intrinsically wrong with the job. It was truly dull. It would have taken me away from other projects. I would have become disenchanted with the client.

I tell myself it wasn't "meant to be".

I laugh.

But I never forget the one that got away.

Eventually, another call for submissions catches my eye... could this be... the one?