Dedication

Over the past ten years I’ve listened to journalism as we once knew it collapse over the phone.

My dad has been a local newspaper editor for thirty plus years. Once upon a time the company printed weekly papers for a host of small towns in central New Jersey. When I was in elementary school I loved that Take Your Daughter to Work Day was a chance to visit the enormous printing presses in the back of the office, inhaling the smells of ink and paper and oil. In high school I would come to the office late at night before printing and read the next day’s copy, silently noting typos, as my dad tried to extract himself from the publication frenzy.

Nearly as soon as I started (at an expensive private) college things started to turn. The content of our Sunday night phone calls was peppered with sighs. “We’re just not selling any advertising,” Was a constant fixture in his check ins. I could envision his hands running through the voluminous grey hair he’s had as long as I can remember–It’s his physical expression of any and all stress. The more fretful the situation, the faster it gets–Every spring when I called to talk about my summer plans he’d mention his salary had been cut by another 10, 20, 30 percent.

After a couple years of back and forth, what’s left of the paper was sold. Now the conversations, phone calls from the streets of DC as I run errands or walk from work to happy hour, are distressing and stressful. “Last week they let most of our leadership go without any notice. I have no idea when that might happen to me. I’m hoping I can at least hold on until August. If they let me go right at the start of the month I could spend a whole month at the lake.” Was his attempt to find a silver lining weeks ago. In our last conversation he was frustrated that the company was bouncing checks to junior staff. It’s hard to listen to. My heart breaks for him, and I see a door closing for me.

Sophomore year, home on spring break, he was the first adult I told about my decision to double major in English and sociology because I wanted to read and write forever. We were bathed in the red glow of a stoplight on the way home from hockey, as we’d been so many times during my twelve year career. He said loudly, “that sounds good Iz. I’m glad you know what you want.” And then, more quietly, “Just make sure you also get some real skills while you’re there.”

I took that quiet direction to heart, along with the recession and a summer spent living at home after graduating without a job (I was privileged enough not to realize that you employment wasn’t a guarantee), and tried taking “practical” classes in economics and statistics (along with some super classic liberal arts classes. Music and Social Movements, anyone?). I got a professional, practical masters  degree in public policy and landed myself a fellowship, then series of jobs in education. But it hasn’t been enough.

I’ve been scared to say it because I see the risks play out in front of me every day. It’s a hard thing to vocalize when you look up and watch a profession at once democratizing and crumbling. But the thing is, I want to be a writer. I want to be a creator. I want to use writing to make sense of the world both for myself and others. This is the thing that makes my mind buzz and my heart expand.

The fact is that I may never be more than a personal blogger, but I’m going to try anyhow. Because creativity is like breathing, and I’ve got to fill my lungs (credit to The Oatmeal for this bit of eloquence). Plus, this dinky personal blog holds no risk whatsoever. If no one ever reads it but me, I’ll just be a happier nobody, doing what she loves in the privacy of her studio apartment.

So, here is my dedication. I am going to write this blog for me, and I’m going to do it at least once a week. I’ll write about whatever inspires me, whatever strikes me, whatever is funny or serious or of the moment–no restrictions. Writing lets me practice being mindful and also reminds me of how insightful I can be, so I my goal is that this blog will make me more confident, less anxious and a little most peaceful.

I do want more, too. I hope you, dear reader, and others like you take something away from my posts and that you tell your friends about this blog. I hope that eventually I’ll have a chance to grow and write more publicly. I hope I get disciplined enough at acting on my inspiration to write a book or two. It would be so wonderful if this practice leads to a more creative career.
But for now, just writing for me will be enough.