The Rescue

At this point, not having a job has been like a mini-vacation for the soul: I've been able to read all I want, write what comes to mind and perfect my culinary "skills" (AN: last time I tried to do that I ended up almost setting the house alight trying to make crab cakes). The time I'd usually reserve to shutting up and buckling down I reserve to saying goodbye to friends and having dinner and a drink with my mother.

Despite being jobless, I still hold many important titles: sister, friend, psychologist, blogger and occasionally, freelance writer.

Which brings me to my new topic...Freelance Writing: Giving Birth to Naivete

In days gone by I aspired to be a poet. If you are a WHS graduate of 2004, you were probably privy to some awful poetry in my name that the literary magazine, Folio, decided to publish either for sadistic reasons or complete lack of intelligence. Through college English courses and a fabulous 400 level class on contemporary poetry, I finally realized something: there's no way in hell I could actually write anything but prose. Writing poetry was like pulling teeth from a full grown adult without novicane: tedious, painful and life altering. So life altering in fact that I decided to stick to written word that didn't rhyme or couplet fantastically.

Graduating from college, and then attempting to make a name (or at least a proper resume) for myself proved a challenge. Finally, a magazine aimed towards college students asked me to write an article for their upcoming issue. I was stoked: finally, recognition! Respect! Fame! Then my deadline approached. Eager and naive, I sent in a full 742 words only to have the editor send it back saying "I really liked what you wrote, but I cut it down a bit. Email me back with your thoughts". This worried me: this article was my baby, the first born of hopefully many to come and I didn't want someone to make it insignificant.

I opened the document and found that it had been cut down to roughly 200 words, max. At first I was a tad P.O.ed...why would someone take out the hilarious bits of me and leave a skeleton? It was the anorexic version of my article: the good stuff left on, but the meat had fallen to the wayside. Deep in my mind, I knew it would be cut, that as a first timer I wouldn't be able to shine, it just took awhile to set in.

Now I accept that what I write, once sent, is no longer mine. I am the princess from Rumpelstiltskin, giving up my first born to a person much more powerful than myself.

I just need to find the power to spin my own work into gold.