Of Blackberries and Despondencies

I believe that soon the world will be occupied by Blackberry-wielding humanoids, unable to tear their eyes away from the screen until they walk off a cliff or into a ring of fire and perish with only these last words:

My Berrrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyy!!!!

*and then 'splash' or 'foooosh', depending on method of death*

I have a feeling this is how I will meet my untimely but not unexpected demise. I will be in Broga, hiking away (I will be thin by then of course) when I will receive a new MSN message from V dearest and go:

"Oh look, J, its a message from V - WARGH!"

And my friends will be left to explain why my body was found shattered in the ravine but the Berry remained intact, wrapped protectively in my poor, broken arms.

*cue sad music*

I may be Berry mad. Nay, I AM Berry mad.

But this is not an advertorial in hopes that the Berry guys will give me the sweet, sweet Berry. No. Not at all. I didn't even link everyone I know to this post.

Yet.

But I digress.

The true reason I write this post is because I am beginning to be painfully aware that work is... different... from what I thought it would be. As my editor would say, this is my first job, and so I have a lot to learn.

I love learning. I just wish it didn't have to come with a healthy dose of 'GROUND OPEN NOW TO SWALLOW ME' moments. I've had so many of those I should be nothing more than a speck of dust by now.

And Lord forbid, is that... despondency I smell???

(Despondency: depression of spirits from loss of hope, confidence, or courage; dejection. - freedictionary.com)

Maybe its not so much the loss of hope as it is the loss of confidence. My belief in my writing is getting shaky - and I have just been presented with the perfect example of why I can NEVER be a HARD HITTING journo. Ever. Par non. Never ever.

I suck.

(To those who believe they suck: you don't suck until your editor tells you your story starts 'okay' then crumbles into nothing immediately after. My editor did.)

I write best personality pieces which allow me to say nice things, write nice things, use very little brain activity and a lot of creativity. I write best stories no one will read and then I will hide them jealously away (sorry, you guys ain't getting notebook paper scans from me) so I can continue to believe I write them best.

I gots issues okay? Issues that break my writer spirit.

But yeah, despondent would be the right word right now. I love my workplace, I think my colleagues and my bosses are great, but my writing just isn't so hot right now.

As you can probably tell by my use of 'not so hot right now'. If I were normal I'd be using words no sane human being would use in any conversation/blog/article.

I ssssuuuuucccckkkk. I could not suck more than if I actually did start sucking my tabletop and then my mouse for dessert.

Ew, that was inappropriate and disgusting. I hate myself. *hides under desk*

Even as I am whingeing away, a small spot inside my head (which looks and sounds like my Mom) that tells me to suck it up and be a man. Err. Woman.

It tells me to learn from my mistakes, dig up old stories I've written so I may see that I did improve (ohohoho, I did. Hella, I did) and tuck every little nugget of advice safely inside my brain-cupboard to be used at a later date, or to be dispensed to someone who steps into a situation like mine.

Which should be nobody, really, because the situations I get myself in because of what I say are... frankly... one of a kind. No one could possibly put their foot into their mouths that often.

It also tells me that all is solved with a cuppa' hot Milo and a good night's sleep. And with keeping my mouth shut more often. I try to do that these days, but its slow progress. I think I need to have a Blackberry in my brain, to keep tabs on what I can and cannot say.

Must keep mouth shut. Must keep mouth shut. Sometimes I wonder when one of my pals will tell me I talk too much, and could do with shutting up. They should, because then maybe I will.

I also feel slightly... restless. Not the kind of energetic restless, or the physical restlessness that spurs many people to go for a jog, play the Wii, or walk the dog.

Its a kind of mental restlessness which I can feel bubbling underneath my skull like an hideous swell. I need something that will make me excited about writing again, excited about being a journalist again, excited to be out there changing the world one word at a time again.

Okay so that last one was melodramatic, but you know what I mean. I am restless for 'that story'. The one I wrote about child sex trafficking did it for a while (not in that way, you dirty people), it got me excited about writing again, and it showed.

The one I just wrote, I hated. 'Not one of your better pieces,' said my editor. I agree. I gave it my best shot (I always do, even if I cringe after) but I just don't have my heart in it. It's quite sad really, for sometimes, my articles feel like chores. Really hard, brain-crushing, heart-smashing chores.

Right down there with washing toilet, cleaning out stove with Mr Goo, kind of chore. I need 'the story'.

The story which will see me walking enthusiastically for kilometres down the streets of Chow Kit, that will have me thinking about it even as I walk, the one that will have my heart beat everytime I see it on print, and the article I will bring home for my parents to read.

I never bring home my stories unless I am proud of them. Some I am, many I am not. And I hope that that will be forgiveable for a while. I am still learning, and with time and wisdom, I will know how to write in such a way that I will make people feel 'hey, yeah, that makes sense. this is a cool article'.

I've had a taste of that, and with every taste I appreciate. I get sms-es sometimes from old friends, people I've met, or even the interviewees themselves saying how they read my article and liked it. I live for those moments. Not because I am vainglorious (though it is, just a little) but because it validates me.

It validates me as a writer, that I can write something people read and remember. More importantly, it validates me as a journalist, that I can write something people will think about. Oh blarny to those who say its not about what others think. It is always and only about what readers think.

I think I have ranted overlong here. But it feels good, though my fingers are freezing and my tummy is aching. I feel clean. Emptied. Somewhat relieved I finally can admit my all-consuming doubts.

Maybe I will go and have that hot cuppa Milo. See if the problems don't go away all by themselves.

Goodbye, ya'll.

I Didn't Get to Say Goodbye

I never saw her walking away, nor send her off with an EPIC GLOMP. I blame my job, and I blame my transport-lessness. I also blame me.

I guess, in a way, I figured if I didn't see her off then she didn't go away to another continent in the far end of the world where the deer, kangaroos and boomerangs, err, play. Or fly. Whichever.

If you don't see someone leaving, then she didn't really, and she just went on a quite long holiday, that's all. In a far off place. Like, if I didnt' see her go then she is just right around the corner, and I can retreat into my stupid little bubble world, and we can all still go Broga Hill.

(Sorry V dear. I wanted to go see you off so bad, but denial and duty destroyed me.)

Hope you can still see my blog in Aussie.

I can't get the image of Hugh Jackman half-naked on a bull out of my mind, so forever now Australia = Hugh Jackman half -naked on a bull. To me. So I can't see the place having Internet and stuff.

(I know they prolly kick our Screamyx in the nuts with their broadband over there but I AM IN DENIAL DAMMIT)

I miss you already, so this post is for YOU.

It's Midnight here, in the Garden of Google and Evil (insects). I am up to finish off some work, and my shoulders ache. I know I talk a lot of nonsense, and I know I may have not have been the most easy person to be around with, but I am good at two things: writing and erm, writing.

So I write. A poem, for you. :)


Goodbye V

Victoria, Victoria,
I think you're still in Subang.
I didn't see you go away,
And so you, erm, didn't.

You are a sweetheart,
and a really cool friend.
That Kelvin is lucky,
He is your boyfriend.

I will always remember how you burnt the chocolate
for the chocolate mousse I made.
And though it tasted pretty bad
All of it, you ate.
(you prolly threw away the rest, but that's okay. I'd throw it away too.)

You're only in Australia,
the internet is everywhere.
Who say we can't talk on webcam,
while in our underwear?

You've got a whole future
ahead of you, so go get it
Australia is no KL, but
I hear they have PORK burgers.

It's an entirely new beginning there
and I wish you all the best.
Eileen say you must come back,
and so do I
But when you do, bring along
tall, blond, and blue-eyed.

For me la, of course.

I end this non-poem now la,
its getting quite stupid.
but here's my point:
(when I finally get to it)
Your body may have left the country,
but you are always here, in our hearts, in our minds, and in our Facebooks.

And V dear, when you come back, I EPIC GLOMP you.