THE WRITER WHO DOESN'T HAVE ENOUGH TIME TO READ.

WHEN WRITING YOUR WRITING JOB RUINS YOUR WRITING

TWO YEARS AGO, I WAS HAVING ARGUABLY THE WORST WRITING YEAR OF MY LIFE. I HAD JUST RESIGNED FROM MY 18-MONTH MUSIC JOURNALIST JOB, AND I WAS WORKING AS A CULTURE WRITER AT THIS MAGAZINE/RECORD LABEL/CREATIVE MOVEMENT, WHERE IT DIDN’T FEEL LIKE THE EDITORS LIKED ME MUCH. NOW THAT I THINK ABOUT IT, MY DESPERATION TO BE SOMETHING OR BRANCH OUT OF MUSIC WRITING PERHAPS MIGHT HAVE BEEN OFF-PUTTING OR MAYBE THEY WERE JUST DISORGANISED TOO.  I DON’T KNOW — THAT JOB JUST DID NOT MATERIALISE, AND THE LABEL OWNERS/EDITORS JUST MOVED AROUND ME AND 10 OTHER PEOPLE DOING THE COOLEST THINGS.

I WAS ENVIOUS, BUT MORE THAN THAT, I WAS DETERMINED TO MAKE A NAME FOR MYSELF BY JOINING AS MANY PUBLICATIONS AS POSSIBLE (HOPEFULLY FOR MORE MONEY), BUT I WAS GETTING REJECTED LEFT AND RIGHT.
OKAY, LEFT AND RIGHT IS A HUUUUUGE STRETCH. I PITCHED TO THREE MAGAZINES AND GOT GHOSTED BY TWO, AND WAS GENTLY LET DOWN BY THE OTHER. LOOKING BACK ON IT, I COULD HAVE DEFINITELY PERSISTED, EVEN FOLLOWED UP, BUT I WAS 20, AND I LOATHED REJECTION. QUITE FRANKLY, I STILL HATE REJECTION. I FELL INTO A REALLY DARK PLACE. I COULD NOT WRITE, AND I FELT TERRIBLY GUILTY THAT MY BOYFRIEND AT THE TIME HAD BOUGHT ME A WIRELESS KEYBOARD AND A CUSTOMISED JOURNAL THAT I JUST COULD NOT PUT TO USE. I THREW MYSELF INTO MY SECOND YEAR INSTEAD, AND I CAME OUT ON TOP. YET, A QUESTION LINGERED OVER MY WEARY HEART. WHO AM I WHEN I AM NOT WORKING?

I STARTED WORKING AS A WAY TO FORGET THAT MY MOM DIED. NO, I STARTED WORKING SO THAT I WOULD FORGET THAT I WAS EVER A PERSON WHO HAD A MOM TO BEGIN WITH. BY THROWING MYSELF INTO TIRESOME, OFTEN EXPLOITATIVE ROLES, I COULD FEEL AND DO NOTHING BUT WORK. I VENTURED INTO MUSIC JOURNALISM ALMOST OUT OF NOWHERE— IF YOU ASKED ME WHY I DECIDED TO START WRITING ABOUT MUSIC, I WOULD NOT KNOW WHY. I DID MANY THINGS IN 2021 WITHOUT JUSTIFICATION; I WAS TOO BUSY GRIEVING.

FAST FORWARD TO 2025, AND I HAVE A TWO-PAGE CV WITH FOUR YEARS OF EXPERIENCE IN WRITING, COPY EDITING, WORKING AT A LOCAL MUNICIPALITY (?), AND SOCIAL MEDIA MANAGEMENT. FOR MY PEERS, THIS IS ADMIRABLE, BUT FOR MY BONES? EXHAUSTING. I SHOULD HAVE APPRECIATED BEING AN UNEMPLOYED 20-YEAR-OLD MORE. I READ MORE, I PROCRASTINATED WRITING THIS VERY NEWSLETTER, I WATCHED A MOVIE EVERY NIGHT, WATCHED 20 KDRAMAS THAT YEAR — I JUST DID NOTHING.

NOW AT THE TENDER AGE OF 22, I LOOK FORWARD TO DOING NOTHING ON WEEKENDS, AND EVEN THEN, I AM OFTEN PLAYING CATCH-UP WITH MY THESIS OR THE ARTICLES AND SOCIAL MEDIA POSTS I DIDN’T GET TO POST DURING THE WEEK. MY BACK GETS WARM RANDOMLY, MY LEFT EYE ITCHES, AND MY BODY IS A SORE MESS FROM NOT SLEEPING. PERHAPS WHEN I AM TAKING A VACATION IN ITALY TWO YEARS FROM NOW, THESE YEARS OF STRUGGLE MIGHT STRIKE ME AS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL, BUT WITH EVERY ASSIGNED ARTICLE, I SLOWLY FEEL MYSELF LOSING THE PASSION FOR WRITING. SUDDENLY, I CANNOT READ A SUBSTACK ESSAY WITHOUT FEELING GUILTY THAT I HAVE YET TO WRITE ARTICLES ON MY OWN WEBSITE. I CANNOT SCROLL ON INSTAGRAM WITHOUT CHECKING UP ON HOW MANY PEOPLE LIKED OR REPOSTED OUR WORK. I CANNOT READ WITHOUT THINKING ABOUT THE EMAILS I NEVER GOT TO DO.

I CANNOT STOP WORRYING ABOUT THE DREAMS I AM NOT CHASING, EVEN THOUGH THE LIFE I AM LIVING RIGHT NOW WAS A DREAM TO 20-YEAR-OLD ME.