What I didn’t need

I didn’t need to be reminded how alone I was.

I didn’t need someone cheering me on from the nosebleed section.

I didn’t need to be fixed.

I didn’t need “good morning handsome” or goodnights.

I didn’t need total allegiance.

I didn’t need to be reminded of my shortcomings,

because believe me, they are always in the back of my mind.

I didn’t need to be told I was strong. Sometimes it was nice to not have to always be.

I didn’t need to be right all the time. I have a nasty knack for that.

I didn’t need someone else to consider when it came to my daydreams.

I didn’t need to be weighed on a scale with all the others.

I didn’t need to learn someone else’s middle name or their favorite color or meet the parents.

I didn’t need a reminder that nothing lasts forever.

Or those cheshire cat memories of a fading smile which are always the last to go.

I didn’t need to know what your chapstick tasted like or the sound of your hair as I brushed it with my rough hands. Everything else would always have been rough in comparison.

I didn’t need that gut ache from laughing until we cried.

I didn’t need that panic attack when I thought of life without you.

I didn’t need any of them. I wanted them. I was grateful to have shared some.

But now they are gone.

I didn’t need

Hope.

The Work Ethic

Right now I work as an independent contractor. A freelance writer. My bread and butter comes from working through an agency. They get me assignments, I write content, I get paid. There are a couple catches to this, however. One of them is the amount of assignments are limited. Some weeks are flush with work, and other weeks aren’t. I do as many assignments as I can when they are available and I try not to burn out. I wrote a lot of articles on slip and fall injuries and car crashes in New York State last week. Since then it has been eerily quiet. The client still hasn’t reviewed what I wrote.

What is unsettling about it all is I’m not the only one experiencing this at the agency. Lots of other writers are scared that the work isn’t coming in like it used to. Considering what has been going on in our country right now, it’s not really a big surprise. The price of fuel reflects the economy in general. Inflation will soon hit our grocery stores like it is hitting the pumps. After all, for nearly $1,000 for a tank of diesel, the trucks have to deliver the stuff somehow. We are going to see things getting much worse very soon. The clients are scared right now of overextending themselves when it comes to marketing. They aren’t buying because they don’t know where their next paychecks are coming from either.

Right now, the Court system still considers me as making what I made when I worked at the university, even though that job has been gone for over two years. They consider that to be my potential, even though if by some miracle the university asked me to come back, it would be at at least $10k per year less. And I would have to figure out a place to live. Probably at around $2100 per month. As it was, I was barely scraping by.

My life is here now. The town where I live might not look like much to a judge or lawyers, (or my ex-wife), but this is what I am doing and where I am living. It’s a good town with clean air, nice summer weather, and just because we don’t live like suburbanites in this town, we have a sense of community those cities forgot about a long time ago. The economy is in shambles, and for someone who lost his job at the beginning of that, I seem to be the only person who understands the reality that my life as it was then, has ended. I am working to start over again at 46 years old. It used to be that people could do these things. But for the last two years, none of that has been considered. I will likely be told I am shirking my responsibilities, even though life changed beyond my control for the last two years. I’m doing everything I can to keep my head above water.

It isn’t easy. But I can say that I am supporting myself on being a professional writer. Which is what I went to college to do.

I found a comment by someone on my Facebook the other day. It was in response to feeling down on my writing ability a few years ago. “You’re an amazing writer!” she said. She read everything I ever posted here too. It’s hard to feel like anything about that statement is true when so many factors are against you. I have had people try to be encouraging when they tell me that I have written books. Most people who write never make it that far. But really, a lot of people do. There’s a lot of competition. Agents have wishlists for what they want too, and what I have written isn’t on any of them. The thing is they just don’t know what they need to publish. They are all taking the safe route. Eveyrone wants to take the safe route these days. If you step out of line, you are harsly reminded why you aren’t the kind of person who gets to do that sort of thing.

I’m flattered that someone thinks (thought) I am an amazing writer. They had only ever really read my blog posts. I’m not sure how she would have felt about my longer works. I’m sure she got sick of my writing towards the end of our acquaintence (I wrote enough letters at the end). But is being “amazing” enough? Even if I did take what they said at face value, why aren’t the agents replying? Why does it feel like you can pick up any book at a Barnes and Nobel and feel like it is garbage? Is what I am writing worse than garbage? And why aren’t the articles selling either?

When you push yourself out of your comfort zone, you feel like this a lot. You feel unappreciated sometimes. Futile. Fooling yourself. Why did someone say I was amazing? What did they really want? But every time you push yourself, you are surprised at how far you can go. For a moment you forget those doubts.

Last summer I sold an article to a magazine. An actual hold-in-your-hand glossy-covered magazine. That was an achievement not a lot of writers can make claim to. Especially nowadays. It’s hard to remember things like that when you are having clients micromanage your articles or the courts looking down their nose at you because you aren’t punching a clock anymore.

Am I an amazing writer? Most of the time I don’t feel like it. Most of the time I feel like an imposter. I mean, most people haven’t heard of me. And the rest of the time when something sells, I wonder why the hell someone bought it. Or even worse, I just wave it off like “of course they bought it.” When those sales become mundane and expected, it doesn’t feel great. It’s almost like what drug addicts say about forever chasing that first high. It will never be the same. I sold my first legit published story for $10. (I had been accepted at my college literary magazine and even won an award for writing, but this was different). It was after over a year of submitting stories to science fiction and fantasy magazines. I was so excited to sign that contract and send it back to the editor. He bought another three of my stories too over the years. He gave me a chance.

I never got critical reviews for any of them, and hell, I don’t even know if anyone read them (other than the editor). What I do regret is by the time the last one was accepted by that fantasy magazine, it felt like I was settling. What an awful feeling. The magazine that gave me a chance after fighting for a year to sell something…was my fallback. I got tired of the fallback after awhile, and when they finally folded, I didn’t even have that. The rest of the publications were filled with people who knew somebody who knew somebody. Having just that $10 was nice. At one point in my life, it was nice to just be published.

I guess I should remember to be humble. And even if I am an “amazing writer” I can be grateful for the work I get and remember how hard I had to fight to get where I am now. I don’t care if it’s not good enough for my detractors…it’s good enough for me. Because it’s everything I’ve ever wanted.

Everyday I put in the work. Every. Day.

It isn’t about talent as much as it is showing up and pushing yourself beyond your comfort zones. And some days knowing that you can give yourself a break. Come back with fresh batteries and hit it again.