The worst thing ever — is to not understand who you are or what it took to make you that person.
As another week winds down — I am desperate to rinse my senses from the overload that has clouded by ability to come up for air — long enough to restore my original settings.
I have been hard at work.
This time, I am patrolling the newsroom. Gathering information as it swarms in — and the methods of aggregation remind me of what it must be like to pilot a plane.
I’ve glanced at the cockpit a few times and the alighted controls are akin to my assigned dashboard.
It’s astounding to comprehend the resources that are geared towards manipulation, coercion and literary greed.
The training sessions have been mind-boggling and distracting — as I earnestly listen to the directions on how to schedule a plethora of tweets, track hot-button stories, initiate the flow of content and just basically be a bitch for all things random and redundant.
Her accent is annoying and her first name makes me think she’s from New Jersey. Or is it the way she dresses? I’m not sure
Okay, I am being bitchy.
The lessons of the day end abruptly. There is breaking news! It involves Donald Trump and the woman he allegedly almost raped.
I am left to fend for myself while the scene is set to accommodate this latest addition to the news cycle.
I’m definitely not versed enough to command the station that’s equipped to shoot the winning goals on behalf of Social Flow, Dataminr, and the rest of the pack.
When I was starting out — the essays had to be devoid of typos, contain relevant information, and read well.
Nowadays, the writing is a secondary concern. Actually it doesn’t even make the cut in the overall scheme of things.
You have to know how to sift for click-bait and figure out a strategy to knock it off the throne. You must be obsessed with tweeting to the point of sickness. You have to possess an uncanny sense of being able to juggle numbers. Everything on your page is pegged with numerical urgency. The lower the number the worse the outcome and of course when its high — that means you’ve scored! Cutting and pasting is the name of the game. Clicking from page to page — as you internalize the bullshit circulating the web.
Then you promptly construct the version that matches the style of the employer dumping low-grade paychecks into your account.
After about a week of repurposing every imaginable feature on Trump — with occasional breaks that permit me to sit and observe my environment — I have arrived at one simple conclusion:
The girl’s not made for working.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m a hard worker. I have a knack for consistently doing what I do best — which is to essentially kick it my way.
Unfortunately — that hasn’t resulted in my ability to support my needs accordingly.
So, I have to sign up to be an editorial drone — that flies around loudly while depositing uninspiring fluff that mirrors exactly what you can find anywhere.
I have to expend the energy that I should be using to craft my long-overdue book — on playing a role that has evolved into something that I want no part of.
I thought journalism was about fetching the facts and presenting them in a convincingly charming way.
But, now I have to go because I am about to enter the realm of Chartbeat publishing. I will soon find out how to make those bad numbers magically disappear from our esteemed page.
I suspect that I might end up performing that act on myself — before the late night shift is over.