A Beach House Might Save Me...

My everyday job - the one that "pays the bills" - is to sell advertising for a small newspaper. The actual pay is...not fabulous. If I had the same job anywhere else, I'd probably be making more money. On commission.
The problem is, I am what some of the older generations might call "lazy." I don't do so well with commission. So, I supplement my income by writing for the same paper.
We are not talking about Pulitzer Prize-winning pieces here. No. In fact, I wrote an article a while back (about which my friends still mercilessly tease me) titled "Baking a Difference." It was about a bake sale for charity at a local hair salon. While I'll leave you to mull over the unsavory details of exposed baked goods resting on the countertops of the local beauty parlor, I must admit, the title was pure brilliance. It neatly encompassed every value of the publication I am privileged to submit material to: local business, charity, and a smattering of hokiness.
I'm sure you can't imagine why I often consider throwing it all away for the cushy life of an institution.
Pardon the drama, but the truth is, "Baking a Difference" was one of my more serious journalistic endeavors. What I mostly write are something we in the newspaper industry call "Business Features" - or, euphemistically referred to at my particular paper as "Advertorials." Cute, huh?
Advertorials are simply advertisements. Got a pet shop or a convenience store you think does it better? Perhaps you are the proprietor of a travel agency or a hair salon who needs to "tell your story." Well, I'm the girl for you.
Now, don't get me wrong. I love the paper I work for. You could not find a more hilarious, devoted gang of freaks such as we. But, I find myself restless - perhaps in the midst of the proverbial existential crisis that is the right-of-passage for my generation. There's got to be something more to my life than Little League features and advertisements for portable bidet systems.
So, I spend much of my free time here, on what our president likes to call "the internets," checking celebrity gossip and searching for the perfect Puerto Rican beach house.
Oh, and researching how to make millions writing children's literature.
I hear some lady in London did very well with that genre.
I haven't got a clue how to write children's literature. But, I bought the "Idiot's Guide" and I have a great storyline involving my fish Raul.
Don't confuse my entry for some ignorant, bourgeois rant. I know I'm a lucky son-of-a-bitch. I know I could be pissing in a hole in Cambodia, waiting for 24 grains of rice promised by my rebel leader sugar daddy. Hey, you've got to be somebody's bitch...
But, I live in the wealthiest country in the world. Angelina Jolie is not going to build a nature preserve in my backyard and make me one of her adopted "chosen ones."
Basically, I have to find a way to pay my mortgage, keep my girlfriend happy, and keep myself out of the padded room.
Puerto Rico looks pretty good.

Hemingway had Doubt too

Doubt is such a strange bedfellow. One day you're up; you have direction. Then she creeps in. Like a bad love you can't let go.

I am currently courting this ex-love of mine. Doubt. She has kept me from evolving. She has tied my hands and forced me to ask, "What's so bad about the way things are?"

I think anyone who pursues creative endeavors has shared this lover. Is it only those strong enough to resist her sweet temptations - to kick her to the curb, and get on with their lives - who have succeeded?

Currently, I am wanting to pursue the only interest that has ever stuck with me; the only thing that I have ever shown a marketable talent for.

But, every time I read - be it Hemingway, Harry Potter or someone's random blog entry - Doubt comes back. As my Grandmother says, She chases you until you catch her.

Tonight, she's come calling again. Instead of writing the Great American Novel, I am whoring myself out for this damn newspaper. Anybody want cheap diabetic testing supplies? Well, maybe you will after you read my next masterpiece in the latest edition.

(Instead of wine and flowers, Doubt brings a certain amount of cynicism to our date...)

Damnit. Here's to the end of all the lovers bent on mastering and destroying. Here's to the end of Doubt. Really. It's not me - it's you.

So, now I am thinking of the Desiderata, and all it's simple wisdom. The one part I've always remembered comes into my head:

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

But, I wonder, who's greater than Hemingway?