In 2005, I moved to Toronto to be a journalist.
I accomplished my dream early and then it began to slip away.
It’s 2018 now. I’m married and have a daughter who will be three next March. The last article I got paid for was about colourful shoes and was published in 2015. What happened, I’d ask myself?
And can I still call myself a writer?
Here’s what happened. After a rough start in the Sports newsroom, I got good at design. Or at least good enough to design the front page. That paid much better than what my writing could fetch. Then my alma mater asked me to teach design part-time. I accepted.
But something had to give. I found it hard to juggle a part-time job, a full-time job, freelance writing and my social life. So the ball I dropped was writing. Eventually, I left the newsroom and shifted to marketing and communications full-time. My priorities got rearranged.
Plus I had a few writing setbacks. Rejected pitches, major rewrites on some articles and I turned in crappy articles and had disagreements with editors. That’s a part of writing. I knew that and it didn’t bother me early on. But as I got older I let it get to me instead of learning from it and moving on.
I miss it though. Writing has always been an outlet for me. Whether I was writing about music, scribbling lyrics under one of my many terrible pseudonyms (silence ficshun, tommy two-gunz, etc.) or spilling my feelings into a journal.
I’ve made the decision to write again.
And to keep the momentum, I set a goal.
I want to write 25 posts by Dec. 31.
And if I don’t write at least three posts each week I have to donate $20 to the Republican party.
So I’m motivated for my own well-being but also because I don’t want to give the Republicans my money.
This is how I reboot my writing.