From: jpoller@novell.com (Contents may have settled during Shipping)
Newsgroups: alt.peeves
Subject: Tech Writers & Mickey Marketeers
Summary: should be shot on sight
Keywords: Peeve: The Jefferson Airplane the Next Generation
Date: 19 Nov 92 23:30:07 GMT
Organization: The Electoral Collage

Peeve: Dealing with Tech Writers and Mickey Marketeers

So there was I, reviewing the first draft of the Programmer's
Reference Manual for a programming toolkit, and the Marketeer, the one
who hasn't given me a schedule for 7 months, hasn't answered her
phonemail since Watson pissed in his diapers, waltzes in during one of
her 5 minute breaks in between useless gossip sessions that she calls
meetings.  In one of the rare pauses between the outburst of hello,
and my, isn't that a nice skirt (directed at, not to, the Tech Writer),
and My, I've been so busy, and Got to run, ta-ta, she deems to inform
me that the product absolutely, positively, in the Federal Express
Way, must be done next week.

Off I go, rearranging my entire schedule, making sure that
everything is just so, and finish my part in time to make the
absolutely, positively, over dead bodies drop dead date.  I review the
documentation, concentrating specifically on the function call
definitions to make sure they are correct.

Two days before drop dead day, the unreachable fashion statement
who sidelines as a marketeer, informs the janitor, who tells the
dishwasher, who tells the night watchman, who tells the morning
receptionist, who tells her lover, who tells his manager, who
tells my manager, who tells me.  So I find out, 1 hour before
drop dead hour that we are no longer dropping dead.

Seems that the Tech Writer wasn't happy and asked for a delay on the
documentation.  Oh I was pleased, and I was PLEASED.  Yes I was.  They
tell me, in their most loving tones, that the project has been
delayed, no shit.  And the unreachable fashion statement, well, she'll
be unreachable for yet another month.  Tradeshows, you know, but try
getting in touch by phonemail.  She promises, yeah right, that she'll
answer your calls.  

Oh, and by the way, the product ships in one month, the day she gets
back from Europe, may she live in her own waste while cowering stuck
in the crossfire of the ServoBosnianLithoCroatEthopian war.

The month passes easily, with many other duties occupying my precious
time, not the least of which is a hopefully successful attempt at
turning a 20 year old spitfire into a F Production racer.

The Skirted Tech Writer, who dare not wear pants, too masculine for
her zaftig figure, passes around the signoff, not second, draft of the
documents, demanding a return 8 hours later, so that she may do the
minor edits and meet her drop dead date 24 hours later.

Quickly purusing the document, I, a very obersvant individual, note the
document has stayed the same thickness, yet it is now double sided.
Feeling, somewhat unjustly, that the portion of the document I had
previously concentrated on, the actual function definitions, should be
in fairly good shape, I concentrate this time on the other stuff.  The
actual English text at the beginning of the book.

Having made liberal use of 2 red pens, 3 stacks of post-it notes, thank
you 3M, I return the document via a coworker, and attend lunch,
obtaining precious racing bits on the way.  On my late return, I am
informed by said coworker, short chain today, that my edits have been
rejected for lack of time, and that we should review them, and decide
which ones are absolutely critical.  Spending another three hours on
this document being my most favored and beloved activity, almost as
good as reading a doll house post, that I graciously agree, keeping
the string of expletives to somewhere under 10 minutes.

After much explanation to this coworker, a naive novice bless his
souls, I am able to convice him of the error of the ways of the skirt.
The particular edits I am adamant are the ones that correct a
statement from saying 'an orange is blue' to saying 'an orange is
orange', or at least, my hope, is that they will change it from
"marketing blather, blue oranges, marketing blather", to "marketing
blather, orange oranges, marketing blather".  Being the rather brutal
and obtuse person, and not wanting to piss off yet another marketing
or tech writer, god knows why, I send off my ignorant coworker to
argue my case on my behalf.

My coworker, having more interest in Softball and Basketball than
protocols, and therefore not as knowledgeable in the areas in
question, knows that basketballs can be orange, blue, yellow, and even
white.  He really doesn't give a tinker's damn whether the marketeers
or tech writers refer to blue, yellow or technicolor oranges, and only
partially succeeds in the task I have commanded.  Sheepishly, he comes
to me to report of his success, and mentions his failures in passing.

Getting my coworker to explain the exact objections of the tech writer
is as easy as reading a post from the Doll House Groupies, and
somewhat less pleasurable than putting my dentists' kids through
college.  So off I go, to the lioness' cave to hunt out the truth of
the way of the writers of tech, such as it is or may be.

The skirt, allways different, yet allways a multi-shaded version of
blue, says this.  And I say, well here is the real technical
explanation of what happens, and maybe now you understand and can
write the one truth.  And she says but I did.  But that implies this,
says I.  Why not say access lists this and access lists that.  But,
she says, She doesn't want to introduce the concept of access lists at
this point.

Now I must admit that my brain faded, and I failed to take the
opportunity to smack her upside the head and say, "I know that your
title is tech writer, and I know that means you are supposed to write.
I guess reading is not a requirement for the position, however.  If
you ever took the time to read the trash that you write you would read
your original paragraph, and find that the seventh and eighth words
were access lists."

I conceeded the point.  I figured that arguing with her would do as
much good as asking !al to !peeve about !buses in the land of quick
copper.

So as our conversation, if my talking and her shaking her head in
bewilderment and confusion could be called that, was drawing to a
close, I got up to leave the litterbox this pussy cat calls home, and
she says she wants me to know that my written comments are
inappropriate.  She says a signoff draft is not the place to put
extensive comments, but a place to do a quick review to ensure that
we are not making blatent mistakes.

She had to step back to avoid the flying spittle and blood as I bit my
tongue in order to avoid lashing out at this Tech Writer who could not
understand.  Shaking, I choked out the words "They are blatantly
WRONG!  We would have been the laughing stock of the community, the
village idiots, and my name would be among them, and I will not let
that happen."  Unfortunately, again, my brain took that moment to
remember a phrase known as office politics and another known as sexual
discriminitation, and I clenched my teeth together, adding at least
one semesters worth of education to my dentists' third child.  I
failed to inform this tech writer that in the intervening 26 days
between the first draft and the signoff draft, the document grew from
78 pages to 156 pages, with no intermediate draft, and she had better
be sure that each and every page was correct or I was ... 

I was getting dizzy from the pain, from my jaws or from the mental
anguish of having to deal with this one, I'll never know, but I fled
as quickly as possible, the flight or fight instinct kicking in to
flight for self preservation, or at least career preservation.
---
Jack Noze -- jpoller@novell.com

	"Your battery is dead.  I couldn't have come up with a more suitable
	    analogy, myself." -- andy banta@abingdon.sun.com
Newsgroups: alt.peeves