Crying at work sucks.
I just had a time-loop experience and my eyes got wet. (Most excretions of bodily fluid are a sign of life, of cells remaking themselves to survive.)
I’m looking for my Canadian bank details so I can get paid for an article I wrote in an American magazine (stay with me). I type in ‘bank details’ in Gmail and start going through all sorts of old and mis-labeled junk that include those two words, until coming across one e-mail. One out of a series that I sent to Anne McNeilly, my mentor/supervisor during the last year of journalism school at Ryerson University.
Throughout my internship at the Ottawa Citizen, I was obliged to send weekly reviews about the experience. I’m not sure how they were meant to be written but mine turned into a candid diary for a woman whom I didn’t know but idealised dearly. She’s a long-time journalist. She rocks.
Here’s what Gmail discovered for me, highlighting the word ‘details’:
“[…] Sorry to torture you with these tedious details, but I just want to establish the general tone of the discussion. […] I didn’t want to get into an argument so I kept listening and maintained my facial muscles against an impulse to breakdown.”
A tear drops. I know exactly what moment I was writing about on Monday, March 29th, 2010 at 19:42:59 — failure.
A tiny/big mistake on the first week of my first big/tiny shot at newspaper reporting in a city I had never been to in a language that wasn’t fully mine yet. That moment/entry was about the disappointment I felt after disappointing my editors, which is the worst kind, when you don’t know any better. But then somehow, this 21-year-old version of me kind of knew.
In the uncomfortable meeting where we crammed into a dusty room at the back of the office:
“She told me that they’ve been looking at my stories very closely, and that I have made other mistakes (“Such as?” I asked, “I’m not sure…”she said. “You spelled Port-au-Prince, Port-du-Prince,” said David. “I see”).
I nodded and accepted her criticism, but asked if she’s looked at any of the other ones: the feature I wrote, or the café-review, or the sports article, which to my knowledge barely needed any editing. She hadn’t.”
And then the dagger in the-fucking-heart. Losing yourself entirely in someone else’s perception of you:
“They asked me if I had any language problems. I pointed out that I’m in my fourth year of Journalism at Ryerson (underlined) with good marks, have been published before, and have more articles coming out in the next few months. (Seriously, did they think I got in by acting cute?). David said he just doesn’t want to ‘bother’ assigning me any articles…Anita said she’ll be giving me small stories and not that many of them. ‘It’s up to you,’ they said, giving me the option of leaving early if I didn’t feel like staying.
Ouch.
I thanked them and said I will consider my options.
I walked back to my desk, finished something I was writing, went to the washroom and shed some tears. I finished the day with another small report and cry-cabbed my way to a pub, all the while resisting a strong temptation to run away.
At the pub, I gave my career as a writer a long and strenuous thought. I questioned my capabilities, and refused to speak to anyone, especially family members, in the process.
I contemplated quitting and getting into a more abstract and self-indulgent realm of existence, such as art or philosophy- which I do love…”
What I don’t tell Anne here is how the tears didn’t stop– not when I was drinking whiskey (neat), not when I was examining the lonely pub through my blurred vision, or writing in my journal, or saying “I’m fine” to the bartender.
“Then I remembered that I’ve wanted to be a writer since grade three. I remembered the first book I wrote when I was 13, the first poem I published, and the first time I found out about the exciting world of journalism and politics. I remembered my little apartment back home filled with books, read and to be read.
That much I knew: I love this.
So the question was whether or not I’m cut out for the job.
I concluded that I’m a weak “reporter,” when it comes to fires and road closures. (I mean, there must be something I’m doing wrong).
…But it can’t all be a delusion. I must be a good writer. At least in the making.
That rainy Tuesday I spent money that I didn’t have on alcohol and a few cabs. I did get sick(er), and stayed in on Wednesday. But by Thursday the game was on again. I went in, finished my previous assignments, and asked for more.”
This cathartic experience had another character in it all along, more than she’ll ever know:
“Our conversation made me feel like it was worth staying and that I do have some credibility– I didn’t even realize how much I needed to hear that from someone like you until I did.
I did everything Anita asked quickly and efficiently. So by Friday evening I had another report, the food bank article was finally out, and I had interviews planned for Monday for two other “shorties” (as she calls them).
The days were excruciatingly long, but I’m planning on a much longer career.
Two more weeks, maybe a few more stories, and I can’t quit.”
“Tara,” Anne wrote back to me,
“I want you to save this journal for the rest of your life – and when the going gets tough – haul it out.”
I’m searching for my Canadian bank details so I can get paid for an article I wrote in an American magazine. It’s lunchtime at the office, where I’m currently producing and co-hosting a TV show. Things are tough, but there are things: there are articles, there are arguments, there are missed trains; there are possibilities. I even manage an intern of my own (and remembering this episode makes me feel like a nice boss).
I’m sharing this with you because I always share these moments with you. I have these moments because, “I love doing this.” And so, if you are having a shit day at work or school, if someone is telling you that you shouldn’t bother with the thing you want to do the most, tell them you’ll consider your options. Have some scotch, think it out. At some point, you will realise that it was all in the details.