There was a time in my life where I was pursuing music journalism. I knew more about the trending rock and metal in the early and late 00s than anything else. I’d be attending gigs on a bi-weekly basis and writing about new releases and reviews. I did not get paid. The perks were free gigs and CDs (if you reviewed them). I’d tried to apply to write for Metal Hammer, Mojo, etc., confident that I’d get in until I realized that they only had five to six writers, and the rest were freelancers.
My partner has lost confidence in music during the pandemic, saying that no one would spend money on music because it’s not an essential service. In other words, art won’t help you pay the bills. Funny he said that. Art has never paid any of my bills, yet I need it.
To me, writing fiction is art. I mentioned a job post that I was interested in and applied for. However, I didn’t get it. And then, I realized that I don’t write for children. All my children’s stories involve trauma, other mental issues, and death. I was trying to be someone that I wasn’t. Besides, I’ve been too focused on novel writing that short fiction doesn’t come easy. I’m not even a fan of children. When my friends introduced me to their newborn, I didn’t even ask to hold her. I can’t put myself in the shoes of a child because I was never like them.
I’ve hinted at my second novel on social media—perhaps too soon. The flashback chapters will take me time to write because revisiting bad memories often take me to a dark place, and I lose my ability to express myself accordingly. Yet, when working on that novel, I’m in my happy place.
The job market doesn’t look good. I haven’t sent out resumes in over a week, realizing that it was pointless applying for positions that I don’t excel in, not to mention, interest me.
I kind of want to be someone’s ghostwriter. Immerse myself in someone else’s emotions, pretend they are my own, and create more meaning for them than they can ever imagine. It’s sad how people don’t see their worth sometimes. Even if they are worthless, I’ll always find a reason to tell their story. How helpless do you think Humbert was, yet he tricked you into empathizing with him?
I’m all about character-driven plots and emotions. That’s what I know best, but I don’t know who needs it, just like who still needs you to review their music?
I’m still learning to ask.
