I go for a walk around town, or tend to my house and story ideas flow through my brain. So many thoughts to write down in regards to recent news, the quality of journalism, or another place I want to add to the list of where my friend should go on his road trip through the Pacific Northwest.
Life seems rosy. Of course I can do this writing thing. I’ve got ideas. People like them. I like writing.
I’m excited as I near my front door and then as I walk through it, it is as if I, a balloon pumped taut with air, run straight into a needle. Deflated.
X company didn’t hire me. Y company hasn’t gotten back to me. Z company isn’t making getting started with some pretty basic work very easy. I wonder: are my ideas really that good? Does anyone truly care to read my ramblings? Perhaps I have an inflated sense of professional value despite my often feeling as if it is the opposite (this, a demonstration of such).
I sit down. Ass to chair, as a family friend once told me is the best way to write. I have goals: While I’m not employed, 3-5 stories a day produced would be ideal alongside one story idea pitched to a legitimate publication each week. If I didn’t get the chance to write as much published material as I’d have liked to while in school, I can do it now on my blog and via freelancing.
Yet the self-doubt is loud. Who is going to allow you to interview them if you’re just so-and-so writing for a blog with fewer than 100 followers? What editors at your dream publications are going to take a chance on your writing for them without related work to demonstrate your chops?
Obviously, it’s a catch 22.
But, ass to chair. Ass to chair. Ass to chair.