I’m feeling profoundly emotional today—the travel blues magnified, for some reason, by spending the morning with my 16-year-old brother, Stuprendan, whom I feel an almost sickening need to protect from the world—so the manifesto made me cry.
I spend most of my days as a writer either trying to make money, or trying to think of ideas to pitch stories. Almost none of the pitches that I make ever get picked up. I’m not good at it. I don’t have great, all encompassing ideas. Or so I believe.
But I’m so fucking hungry to write, I feel hollow from it. I have all of this energy and passion to put into writing stories, but besides the blog, I have no outlet for them. Everyday, I choke on my yearning. (I wish I could think of a blow job joke to make that seem less desperate, but I’m at a loss.)
I know most writers feel like this. And I know that even if my career continues to grow, it will never be easy. Sometimes, I just get exhausted from it. And then I read a piece like this, and it makes me emotional:
“You read the laments of editors, male and female, who say women don’t pitch enough; women don’t want to write the tough, research-heavy cover stories men will write; women are too timid; women simply don’t submit as much; women don’t write as much.”