Untitled #30

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.

  1. There’s my mother’s ongoing breast cancer treatment.
  2. The upcoming embryo transfer next Monday.
  3. 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 thought.

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.


5 thoughts on “Untitled #30

  1. Stop beating yourself up. EVERYONE does that. They lose sight of things because they are too close. That’s why we have people read stuff. When you have enveloped yourself in something as deeply as you were in that article, you stop having the perspective that comes from distance.

    And when you add in what you project to be the expectations of your editor, of business periodicals generally – I thinks its a totally unexceptional thing to have happened.

    Its not that it happened, it what you do when you discover it. And you are doing the right thing.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Yup, that second set of eyes is so critical. Not your fault, all writers get a little close and need that editor to evaluate. No need to beat yourself up. Wishing you the best the next couple of weeks.

    Liked by 1 person

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