It’s a living

The best job in the world could just as easily be the worst.

It’s great, for example, when you’re racing through the halls of the Senate to break a story and while you’re writing in your head (and running), a part of you is going: “This is it, this is history and I’m here to see it and maybe make sense of it.” It’s great when you’re full of adrenaline and typing out each letter is a challenge because your hands are shaky and your thoughts are racing.

There’s a thrill to breaking out in cold sweat because your editor wants the story and you need a few more seconds to make sure you got it as close to right as possible. Maybe it is exhilarating because for most of the time that you are writing, you are probably not breathing, and then when you’re done, you gulp in as much air as you can because you did it, it’s done. And you won’t die of asphyxiation, so that’s always a happy occasion. But more than that, you’ve won against bastard time and your limited intellect. This time, at least.

It can be the worst, too, like when you are alone at the office on a Friday night because of an earthquake that raises Tsunami warnings along coastal cities and you’re supposed to be with your girlfriend because you made plans to go dancing to some home-grown ska-punk band.

But that doesn’t happen because, infinitely although not personally, what you want doesn’t matter. Sometimes, what you’ve done doesn’t matter either because goddamn, you’re not doing it right and there’s a typo in your story somewhere, and you’re not getting enough important information through to the readers.

It can be the worst job in the world when two phone calls and broken promises that you’re “leaving in five minutes” later, your date is asleep because she waited for you and you’re not supposed to make dates wait or else they will fall asleep on you, or, if you are truly unlucky,  storm away and never be your date again.

Those are the times when “best job in the world” doesn’t quite cut it because what’s the use of reaching thousands with your hackneyed sentences and your tired journalese when the one person you really want to connect with has passed out from boredom?


2 responses to “It’s a living

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