San Fermin, “Sonsick”
The world is about marketing. Journalism is about marketing. And for a writer, this is discouraging.
With the internet creating an emphasis on how to make journalism profitable, making it in freelance is more what’s your readership than your technical prowess. No one will read what you write if you can’t market yourself. And who has the time to market themselves anyways? A very dedicated blogger…I guess.
Part of this is why I discourage myself from writing as a primary profession. Part of this is why I envy my companions who have made it in the blogosphere. They work their tails off on Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr and the like to promote their brand. They put in the effort and they bear the fruit of their work. I’m envious because not only am I unmotivated, but I don’t have a viable topic to share.
I’m not trained in fiction. I have no interest in writing about sports. Or politics. Nor am I informed enough to write on the latter. A music blogging gig would be neat. Y’know, if I had training in music theory. To be frank, I’m only trained in excuses. And for what it’s worth, I’m damn good at excuses. Shit, I’m writing a blog about them right now.
A few months ago I made a crucial decision. I discovered my purpose. My work in a school system had allowed me to pick what I already knew. Here’s some cool Oasis lyric.
The first thing I saw as I walked through the door
was a sign on the wall that read,
It said you might never know that I want you to know
what’s written inside of your head
My time working for the New Haven Board of Ed made me choose counseling (with a concentration in Drug & Alcohol Abuse!) Something I’d wanted to do since first enrolling in undergrad, but reconsidered once I graduated (see why that quote is so relevant!) Counseling my students let me know everything I needed to know about myself.
Yet, here I am blogging after nine months of negligence with a pretentious post title like “A Journalist Reignited.” Clearly I have no idea what I’m doing with myself. Particularly if the post title has any relevance.
Which is why it’s so fascinating to meet these people that do. They just do. They’re all in. Married to a profession. Live or die. Eat, sleep and breath it! It’s insane. For someone to be so passionate about someone. Or something.
They say marriage goes against human nature. Well, I think any kind of permanent connection to anything goes against human nature. How can one classify a human being as exactly anything? And how can a human being classify themselves as exactly anything? I’m married to ____. My job is _____. The very nature is foolish and as a result we are foolish.
(I promise this wasn’t supposed to be an existential crisis post)
I met a reporter over the weekend. We talked writing. Editing. Shit I love talking about. We exchanged contact information and I’m sending her my stuff because she loves editing. Particularly content editing (aka shit everyone can use a touch up on.) For the first time in a long time I want to write. Sue me. And I don’t know what about. Or even why.
Anything. Anything to take me away from the discouraged bullshit my mind was in about a year ago when everything I’d write would go through a repetitive state of events. Here’s a cool list of it:
- Brilliant idea
- Start writing
- Damn this sucks
- I’m not publishing this amateur garbage
If you’re wondering what writers block looks like. Or what an unmotivated stable life looks like. Is.This.Is.It? This.Is.It.