Notes On the Run
Hiding behind bizziness to avoid depression. I see why they call it a disease. It doesn't just go away just because I've felt okay a few days in a row. The source is far deeper than good socializing and cheap red wine can mend. It's voids in purposes and meanings and relations. It's feeling distant from those who are supposed to be close, betrayal from those who are supposed to be reliable, and a sense that right now some major elements of a stable, rooted lifestyle are missing. Like a job. And a place to live (After Feb 28. So keep your eyes peeled for me.) And long term goals. The moments when depression falters, even briefly, are when friends call, when they ask how I'm doing, when we talk longingly about our idealistic dreams, but as if they will remain dreams for a long time to come. Maybe we talk this way because if we achieve them, we fear that we'll no longer have dreams. Ha! Unlikely. We're just depressed and whiny, and inertia is an insipid little bugger who has worked its way into my rug and my upholstery and my bedsheets, so it gets absorbed into my system everywhere I walk, sit and sleep. Through my pores!
Finishing up a couple short temp assignments in the next day or two, and working on a freelance writing gig that actually pays! It's been ten years since I've done any reporting or worked with editors and I'm reminded how much more assertive I used to be. I hated calling people for interviews, and I hated interviewing even more, but I just did it, because that was the first half of journalism. The reward was getting to write the story - the second half of journalism. Even now, with ten more years of self-confidence under my belt, every time I call a source to request an interview I still hover with my finger over the "Send" button for a minute or two, hoping I won't be so nervous that I forget my pitch. It has happened. Lots. Now I think I like the excitement of asking sources about themselves. It's the same excitement I get when I meet someone traveling or at a party, but with the pressure of having to take notes and ask intelligent questions at the same time.
If there's one thing I've always known, it's that I'm a writer. Not a journalist or sketch artist or pianist. Whatever it is that makes me a writer is embedded like, in my mitochondria. Whatever it is drives me to find the perfect word to follow the perfect word to follow the perfect word that expresses exactly what I wanted to say, and when I do, it's a gratification greater than making and devouring the perfect Denver omelet or the perfect mixed greens salad with toasted almonds and marinated mushrooms and golden raisins and smoked tomato dressing. It's the satisfaction of creating perfection without the effort of perfectionism, because when I write well, it feels effortless.
Whoa. Tommorrow I am a worker bee yet I am still awake. At the risk of departing on a rather self-congratulatory note, I will just have to promise more on this later.
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If anyone out there knows Pico Iyer, please introduce us! I come with a very small dowry and no frequent flier miles, but I have big dreams. BIG.
Finishing up a couple short temp assignments in the next day or two, and working on a freelance writing gig that actually pays! It's been ten years since I've done any reporting or worked with editors and I'm reminded how much more assertive I used to be. I hated calling people for interviews, and I hated interviewing even more, but I just did it, because that was the first half of journalism. The reward was getting to write the story - the second half of journalism. Even now, with ten more years of self-confidence under my belt, every time I call a source to request an interview I still hover with my finger over the "Send" button for a minute or two, hoping I won't be so nervous that I forget my pitch. It has happened. Lots. Now I think I like the excitement of asking sources about themselves. It's the same excitement I get when I meet someone traveling or at a party, but with the pressure of having to take notes and ask intelligent questions at the same time.
If there's one thing I've always known, it's that I'm a writer. Not a journalist or sketch artist or pianist. Whatever it is that makes me a writer is embedded like, in my mitochondria. Whatever it is drives me to find the perfect word to follow the perfect word to follow the perfect word that expresses exactly what I wanted to say, and when I do, it's a gratification greater than making and devouring the perfect Denver omelet or the perfect mixed greens salad with toasted almonds and marinated mushrooms and golden raisins and smoked tomato dressing. It's the satisfaction of creating perfection without the effort of perfectionism, because when I write well, it feels effortless.
Whoa. Tommorrow I am a worker bee yet I am still awake. At the risk of departing on a rather self-congratulatory note, I will just have to promise more on this later.
=============
If anyone out there knows Pico Iyer, please introduce us! I come with a very small dowry and no frequent flier miles, but I have big dreams. BIG.
posted by Justina at 12:53 AM
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