February 27, 2009
It's been a while since I've sat down to write professionally. For the first time in my life I've been offered work from a professional writing company - run by three passionate journalists who believe in the power of their words. I feel honored to be among them (rephrase: below them) and I know they will teach me well. Such an opportunity.
And every moment that I sit down at my desk I stand up again because I feel guilty for leaving Ché with cute softies as companions. I'm finding it so difficult to explain to these writers that I can't just drop everything to do an interview or write a quick 400-word article. Sometimes it's hard to find the write words - to say out loud that my passion is in my mothering and not making money from my sentences.
The journalism world is a patriachal one. Still. There's power in a pen, you know. I've always steered clear of conceited men (and women) in the industry. Of power plays and cutting words. My reasoning? I don't want to spend my time surrounded by arrogance and feeling shit about myself.
Because it's true - my writing is my art. Draw a line through my words and I feel it. Deep. There's a big difference between constructive criticism and blatant distaste.
So now that I've got this job I wonder if I've got the fire, the drive, the unending desire to win. In journalism you win or you get treatment from a blood red pen.
Or do I teach yoga a few times a week, spend precious time playing, puttering, exploring, finding with Ché and write because I love it. My words are habit - they should never be a chore.