It's Saturday and I've been working since Sunday
The thing about my fairly new job is that I end my day completely tired and I wake up even more tired. Last week, I filled in for the DoJ reporter and as I was walking --- searching actually --- to my beat I felt so tired and lonely. My bag was heavy. My bones ache. I was running on empty. I arrived at the media office and started reading a politician’s petition. I couldn’t believe it. There I was at nine in the morning trying to understand legal jargon. I soon discovered that the Department of Justice, The Court of Appeals and the Supreme Court, all housed in one block, are all part of my watch and are actually three separate offices. By the next day, I was at the Court of Appeals searching for a juicy case. I felt like I was Brenda Starr. Technically it’s been a month since I accepted this job and I never thought I’d feel insecure and so bobo again. I can write a 24-page script in a few hours but I can’t seem to write an article in one. Every time I am faced with a deadline I clam up. Is my grammar correct? Did I get the facts right? Is there another angle that I am missing? In a span of three weeks, I’ve learned about the stock market, consumer price index, BBL, senate proceedings and labor cases. Yes, mother, I am out, way out of my comfort zone. I don’t know how they do it, to be honest. How do you search for a story day in and day out, write three articles in two hours and not go bonkers? But I do get why some people stick to this job. There’s an adrenaline rush when you are chasing someone to get a quote. There’s excitement when you’ve stumbled upon some juicy news. Curiously enough, the thing that I love most before when I was still in this industry is the thing that I most hate now. I don’t like it when I am about to sit down and write the story. Fear takes over. I freeze. I choke. I take forever and make really stupid mistakes. I am no longer ecstatic when I see my name on paper. I’m just relieved that somehow I got something done. Every day I ask myself: Is this the day that I will give up? I haven’t given up just yet. But maybe I will. Tomorrow or the next day or the day after that or maybe next week. And when I do, I’ll take a day-off and by the next day write something for myself. Interior. House. Day. He gets up. Goes out to the garden. Greet his dogs with a kiss. Look upward and thank God.