Wednesday, September 9, 2009

The Great Trade Off

my my. where does the time go? as the stifling heat of summer is killed by a crisp fall wind, i have these moments where i stop, and think, 'how did all this happen?' i could trace my steps from point A to point B, but wouldn't know where to start. All I know is that this time last year, the life I'm living now seemed like some sort of distant fantasy of a life I might someday have. I wake up in the morning knowing that the responsibilities i have are to myself and to the vast, unknowing masses, not to an editor or a deadline. My life as a reporter, while far from over, has changed so drastically that I only now realize what it is that drew me towards journalism in the first place. that need to inform people. a desire to educate and inspire those willing to make the slightest effort, or show the faintest interest. but now, instead of clogging their minds with useless information, i can help them discover a talent, a creative outlet of some kind. a resource they never dreamed could be used to their advantage. it's gratifying to end my days feeling like i've accomplished something, and wondering about the possibilities of another day instead of dreading that story i neglected to write or that meeting that will linger long into the evening. i'm even working on a new photography project that will not only give me a chance to make more art, but to exercise some old demons and discover what's left of some empty spaces, and what it meant when they were once full of life.
I never could have known, one year ago, that i would be here. Providence is not Boston, and I am so grateful, because while i may live in a shitty neighborhood and be living off food stamps and stipend money, i love my little apartment, i love waking up and riding my bike into the city, i love that my job requires me to print and design and write and talk and think. i am NOT just a writing machine. it amazes me, in retrospect, the sheer volume of work i could produce, and still be made to feel like a failure. like i was not performing to some impossible standard. it's clear now, from the kind words of the people i've met, that my work meant something, and there is a part of me that misses the sheer process of writing. the methodical tapping of keys, the stream of thoughts and facts and quotes that made an article become a story. but now, im writing my own story, and right now, it's looking pretty damn good.


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