Not blogging, but real writing. You know, the kind that someone else publishes and then sends you a cheque for. The kind you can brag about. (I know. Gross. Maybe I don't miss writing, maybe I just miss validation and being able to show off.)
I think this might just be part of my never ending, soul-draining self-esteem problem (as referenced in my last post), but maybe not. I hated being a journalist, sure, but that was just, you know, overall. I just hated most of it, not all of it.
Sometimes I think this is part of the problem. If I hated all of it, maybe I wouldn't feel this occasional confliction. It's like a shitty relationship with a person you once had high hopes for. You know how it is... sure, five years in, the day to day is shitty shitty shitty, and more than half the time, you hate the other person's stupid face and the way s/he breathes and the way s/he eats, but once in awhile you have a laugh together and that makes the hate less because it reminds you of what it was like in the beginning, when you thought the relationship was going to be perfect and you didn't hate anything. So you stay together and keep on swallowing the shitty for, like, a decade.
It's like that.
field. And like I said, I hated most of it – the work, the people (I REALLY HATED THE PEOPLE*), many of the product(s) I helped to produce, all of it. It was terrible. Nonetheless, I felt I had a reasonable talent. My writing was okay (probably not stellar, let's be honest) and my crazy anxiety meant I never missed a deadline. Never. Not once. And at least at the time, the pay was reasonable. (It's not anymore.) But big whoop right? The day-to-day was shitty shitty shitty and that's what should have mattered most. Problem is, everyone I met seemed to think my fancy-pants journalism career was impressive, and because I'm a weirdo with no self-esteem, I let that matter most and I stayed and stayed. (This is why the section of this blog that talks about work stuff is called The Golden Handcuffs, in case you were ever wondering.)
So blah blah blah. I might miss writing. MAYBE. I'm not sure. I did my taxes recently and that highlighted how little money I make and I kind of panicked and started thinking "I've gotta pitch some stories!" which is what I always think when I'm worried about money, since pitching stories used to be what paid my rent.
I stay up all night chain-reading work by drug addled bloggers who seem to be media darlings (like Cat Marnell - I'm OBSESSED with her) and I start thinking "I can be like that! I can be a media darling! I like drugs! I'd get so skinny!" because at 4 am, my brain doesn't work right and pretending be something or pretending to understand something is how I operated as a journalist, so it's sort of second nature. Sometimes, I go so far as to send off an ill-formed, beggy pitch to an editor, and then, when I re-read the email in the morning, I realize how lame I sound and I basically want to shrivel up and die in shame.
And then it's four days later and I haven't done anything worth bragging about and I feel inadequate and we're right back to the beginning.
*I didn't hate all the people, and some of the publications were cool. If you're reading this, I probably liked you. Chill the fuck out.
** Hey, notice the date on this post? Yeah. Not the real date. I like publishing personal posts on Mondays and even though I didn't write this on a Monday, I dated it Monday, because I don't like aberration. THIS IS HOW CRAZY I AM. The title "Hi, crazy!" refers to me, talking to myself, in the mirror.