This past week marked my actual realization as a journalist.
It just kind of hit me full force. Sitting on the bus, talking to a stranger, and that's how I introduced myself. It rolled off the tongue, and I realized it was the truth.
Not only does the job and the internship legitamize this claim, but the actual legwork too. I mean, what kind of person willingly waits for hours next to a bike rack hoping to find an interview if not a journalist? What kind of person carries their AP Stylebook with them everywhere if not a journalist? It's who I've become, somehow.
It's startling to look at the turn I've taken, at how the dream has changed in only a few years. I'm not sure what I'm after. This business is certainly more profitable than novel writing, and there are more positions than in literary translation... But I think I just latched on to something that I quickly became good at. Radio isn't easy, but it's something I can do well. I can make a name for myself. I don't want to be famous; I just want to be respected.
I can change the world. My East African Male story proved that. This is what I need to do.
But, yes, so my creative writing has suffered (especially fiction), but so it goes. There will be time to come back to that. Some day. Hopefully.
If the career starts now, there are some laws I have to lay down first. If change can come so easily, without even thinking about it, than I have to make sure there are things I won't, I can't, lose. Like swing dancing. And reading books. And cooking. And the Amigos. I can't lose these. There will always be time for these.
Somehow I've gotten here. With help, but on my own steam.