I haven’t been sleeping well. I mean, I’ve been sleeping, but I don’t feel well rested. Well, maybe that’s not entirely correct. There is a lot of my mind.
- There’s my mother’s ongoing breast cancer treatment.
- The upcoming embryo transfer next Monday.
- The article I wrote about my beloved city that just got a racial check from a friend of mine.
Let’s examine the third point, shall we?
My second job is being a freelance writer. Most of the time I write content for business blogs and if you’ve ever read a business blog then you know how sanitized those posts are. You write enough posts, it’ll add up. But last October, I found a posting through a relatively well-known magazine to write an article about the city that I live.
Perfect, I thought! I can do this.
And I did. I poured my heart and soul into the article. I wrote 3,000 words (well closer to 4,000 words) and the limit was 1,300 words. That was more than half of what I wrote. How devastating is that? It’s a lot if you wondering. But like my fiction counterparts, you have to kill your darlings. So, slashing and burning I went. Chopping the clever turn of phrases and the poeticness of my beloved city. I had friends look it over. I had my husband read it and help me edit. I thought I did enough.
I obviously did not. My friend, whom I adore dearly, emailed me about it and we discussed what I clearly had cut out…the diversity of the city.
Shit. Goddamn motherfucker. What the fuck have I done?
How could I do something like that? I’m pretty attuned to the racial divide.
I’m not really.
While on my morning walk, I realized that I am pretty damned divorced from my ethnicity, from my heritage. I am a first-born American. There were no other Filipinos around me. My birthday missed the cut-off at the private Catholic school where all the other Filipinos went. I was “stuck” going to public school lest I get left behind. I know. This isn’t an excuse. It’s an explanation, of sorts, of how far out I’ve strayed from the heritage that is only a generation behind me.
That being said, this realization makes me uneasy and may have caused me to go further into my head.
I know. I’m beating myself up. Perhaps a little too harshly. But I have tried to make amends – by reaching out to the editor I worked with – to see if I can rework it just a little. Okay, so maybe my own reaction is a little blown out of proportion
Okay, so maybe my own reaction is a little blown out of proportion. Maybe I am a little hysterical and thinking a little catastrophically. I am able to do so time to time.
Remember, I am hopped up on hormones in preparation for the transfer. If all is successful, I probably won’t be thinking properly for a while.
Fuck it. I wrote my editor. I agree with my friend. I should stop beating myself up for this. I’m sure I’ll fuck up again later on in life – perhaps soon.
Don’t mind me.