Realized journalism has done serious damage to my writing. For years, it's been a struggle to recapture a poetic essence of expression.
At 23, I devoured dreams and spilled them onto the page, dribbling like a Jackson Pollock painting. A beautiful arrangement of words.
But as I grew older and more cynical and jaded, that beauty faded. Reality hasn't been kind, and I paid for it.
My writing's been uneven, stilted. Trouble concentrating and keeping focused on creating beauty.
Reporting is about getting it down fast, not creating beauty. It is why I'm frustrated. Journalism is ruining my ability to really write.
Writers weave a tapestry of beauty and truth. They make you glad you're alive. Journalism is a bitter seed, a ruinous path leading nowhere.
They say journalism is the first draft of history. Who want to publish a first draft? First drafts always suck.
So I'll strive to become a better writer, even if it costs me my sanity. So it goes. Thanks for reading my rant. Good night.