Ever since I was in primary school, I knew it. The day I folded orange construction paper into halves and halves again and, within its sections, told the story of a circus clown...I knew -- with childlike expectation and ambition -- I had to pursue this passion.
I had to become a writer.
Nearly 30 years later, I write executives' e-mails about the latest human resources initiatives of our high-tech company. I write short summaries of our press releases for an employee newsletter. I write blurbs of community news to air on our in-house TV network. And I try not to use words like "leveraging" or "synergies." Inevitably, someone with no writing expertise whatsoever will add them in while rearranging most of the others I've written. And the end result is some bit of garbage to which I hope my name will never be attached.
Where did I go wrong?
For a while, a couple jobs ago, I had fun as a writer. I worked at a daily paper. I had purpose. The words meant something. I flew on a helicopter that was herding buffalo, and I wrote about it. I spent time with a family of 12 children whose father suffered irreparable brain damage in a horrible auto accident, and I wrote about it. I told people's stories. I painted a picture. In my little corner of the world, I tried to make a difference.
And while I did all that, I struggled to understand why something that felt so right could seemingly treat me so wrong. The pay was awful. The benefits were almost nonexistent. The need to turn an ever larger profit made the newspaper less and less about news and more about the bottom line.
So I left the fourth estate and traveled to the dark side. I sold my soul. I gave in to financial needs. I entered the world of promotion, of corporate America, of sucking up and climbing the ladder.
I want back my soul. My dignity. My dream.
I'm at a career crossroads. I'm waiting to hear back about the job I interviewed for a few weeks ago. I want the job so badly I can taste it -- writing health/medicine-related features for a magazine, back to telling stories of significance. I have little hope of getting the job. Competition's too tight.
If I do not get the job, I cannot continue on my current path. My daily commute to work is 45 minutes of dread, sadness, fear, loathing, hopelessness. I am contemplating a bold move -- ditching my job with its steady paychecks and monotony for a chance at freedom, expectation, excitement. A chance at harnessing that childlike energy and bringing myself back on track.
I'm afraid. What if I can't make it as a freelance writer? What if I DON'T have the great American novel in me? What if they disconnect our electricity and foreclose on our house when I can't make it work financially?
There are many what ifs. There are more whys and hows. There's one big "where." Where am I ? The me I know, the me I hope to be, is out there somewhere far far away from internal communications in a corporate nightmare.
I just need to find her and set her free.
I had to become a writer.
Nearly 30 years later, I write executives' e-mails about the latest human resources initiatives of our high-tech company. I write short summaries of our press releases for an employee newsletter. I write blurbs of community news to air on our in-house TV network. And I try not to use words like "leveraging" or "synergies." Inevitably, someone with no writing expertise whatsoever will add them in while rearranging most of the others I've written. And the end result is some bit of garbage to which I hope my name will never be attached.
Where did I go wrong?
For a while, a couple jobs ago, I had fun as a writer. I worked at a daily paper. I had purpose. The words meant something. I flew on a helicopter that was herding buffalo, and I wrote about it. I spent time with a family of 12 children whose father suffered irreparable brain damage in a horrible auto accident, and I wrote about it. I told people's stories. I painted a picture. In my little corner of the world, I tried to make a difference.
And while I did all that, I struggled to understand why something that felt so right could seemingly treat me so wrong. The pay was awful. The benefits were almost nonexistent. The need to turn an ever larger profit made the newspaper less and less about news and more about the bottom line.
So I left the fourth estate and traveled to the dark side. I sold my soul. I gave in to financial needs. I entered the world of promotion, of corporate America, of sucking up and climbing the ladder.
I want back my soul. My dignity. My dream.
I'm at a career crossroads. I'm waiting to hear back about the job I interviewed for a few weeks ago. I want the job so badly I can taste it -- writing health/medicine-related features for a magazine, back to telling stories of significance. I have little hope of getting the job. Competition's too tight.
If I do not get the job, I cannot continue on my current path. My daily commute to work is 45 minutes of dread, sadness, fear, loathing, hopelessness. I am contemplating a bold move -- ditching my job with its steady paychecks and monotony for a chance at freedom, expectation, excitement. A chance at harnessing that childlike energy and bringing myself back on track.
I'm afraid. What if I can't make it as a freelance writer? What if I DON'T have the great American novel in me? What if they disconnect our electricity and foreclose on our house when I can't make it work financially?
There are many what ifs. There are more whys and hows. There's one big "where." Where am I ? The me I know, the me I hope to be, is out there somewhere far far away from internal communications in a corporate nightmare.
I just need to find her and set her free.
Comments