Having written.

Writing is hard, and I ‘effing hate it. 

For a gal pursuing a career in journalism, you will be hard-pressed to find someone who hates writing as much as I do.

I make a cup of coffee to steel myself. Then I make one more. I watch endless hours of British period dramas on Netflix to avoid the soul-crushing pain of confronting a blinking cursor in a terrifyingly blank Word document. 

I. Hate. Writing.

Until I don’t. 

Until the moment I bite the bullet and open those GODDAMN, WHY DO YOU EXIST, I HATE YOU RECORDER, YOU SOUL-CRUSHING INNOCUOUS LOOKING PIECE OF TECHNOLOGY THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO HELP ME interview MP3 files, pore over my notes, take those first trembling clickety-clacks of my keyboard, confront confront confront, I hate you confrontation … and simply write. 

Tell a story. Hey girlfraaaand, let me tell you a story. 

Sometimes I imagine starting my lede with “This is a story all about how _____’s life got flipped, turned upside down” but I don’t, because I didn’t know that entire line until I looked up the lyrics to the opening of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air just now.

Sometimes I really wish I was the daughter of a rich landowner who could flounce around in pretty dresses all day and never have to write a damn thing. Not one. Damn. Thing.

But then I don’t, because my philandering husband would go out, get syphilis and bet all the money on the horses. Also, I hate wearing dresses. Loathe.

I love having written. Having told a story.

Getting it off my chest, because I can’t not do it, I can’t not subject myself to this hair- and hijab-pulling, terrifying, beautiful, fraught with pitfalls of terror and avoid-at-all-cost error, this being a soldier on the front lines of history and telling a story about a real human being who breathes/d and loves/d and cries/d and lives/d. 

Seek truth and report it. 

Seek truth. 

Seek truth. 

I will probably never weigh what I once weighed before I got myself into this relationship. I will eat too much of the wrong things and drink too much coffee. I will cry and become furious. I will wish I was anywhere but here. I will always find my way back. 

God-willing. 

I will write about real human beings who lived. 

 

 

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One thought on “Having written.

  1. I love this! And it makes me laugh because last week I was saying, “I wonder what life would be like if I was an heiress. I wonder if I would be angry at myself because I didn’t reach my potential and instead had every luxury given to me. I wonder if I would even care.”

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