I question if anyone would care to read my thoughts.

I find, in my eight years of practicing writing—that something I truly value is a reader—an audience to serve—someone who cares. Without it, I feel like words go into the void, and now the internet makes that void even more vast.

I used to write for an audience of hundreds—you could say my writing journey started with One Direction fanfiction (cringe). But my readers kept me honest, held me accountable—I had one who quite literally scoured the corners of the internet to send me a Twitter DM to my personal(hope you’re well girlie). So, I would hike my laptop up and fucking write, for them.

However fiction is different—I still haven’t been able to finish the novel I’ve been writing (for literal years), but I can set aside time to write fiction—no matter how slow I’m going.

In this case—it’s just different. My high school writing instructor would scold me for stopping under the guise of writer’s block. But really, I’m doing just that. Not in the way where my brain won’t produce words, but in the way that I won’t bother to even try to sit down and put them on the paper (or the screen now, I guess).

Writing for myself doesn’t mean writing fiction for me. It means a personal essay, it means articles, book reviews—it means more me. And I just don’t know if I have anything profound to say.

So here goes nothing.

I was let go from my job in December where 70% of my day was writing healthcare articles. And I promise I’m not about to go sob story on you, but I thought the agency space was where I wanted to be. I think I called it my “dream” job after college. However who actually dreams about working?

Well, lowkey—I do.

I want to enjoy what I do with my life, travel, eat well, live in a big house (I’m being modest)—and hey, that means working and in my head: climbing the corporate ladder? Maybe.

After my layoff, I went straight into fixing my portfolio and resume and applying to the same types of jobs. Content marketer, content marketing manager, content manager, lead content writing manager, communications and content manager. Submit. Submit. Submit. Submit. Then I paused.

I’m in my mid-twenties, for those of you who don’t know me. This layoff opens avenues for me to do literally anything else if I want to.

I’ve had a crazy thought about becoming a dog trainer (and yes I’m taking courses), I want to go back to school for a Masters (in what? Who knows?!). I want to indulge myself a little more and write for me.

Naturally, I did this crazy thing last month.

I was in the barrels of the application cycle. 100 applications a week, no responses, ever, a handful of rejections, and maybe 5 interviews—the job market? Trash. The world around me? On fire. My soul: sucked. Gone.

So, I applied to a volunteer position. In my brokest, most stressful time in my life—I applied to work for fucking free. And yes, it’s okay to laugh, but ponder too.

I will be reviewing books for a little online literary publication (more on this to come) with a responsibility of 2-3 reviews a month, which is lowkey a lot, but I’m trying not to think about it. It’ll be a good addition to my portfolio.

I’m hoping it will keep me honest, and hold me accountable to myself—allow me to reconnect with a literary community. I want to bring myself and others joy with the world still on fire, and my most recent job rejection happening just now.

Which brings me back to these words. I’ve been wanting to get started for a while, and this rejection today stung more than the others have, however I’m adding the rejection to my spike, taking a deep breath, and starting again with words for you instead of 20 applications.

I’m hoping someone will read my words, even when it’s nothing prominent or profound, so I can enjoy writing a little more than I did yesterday.

If this happens to be you—even if you never come back again—let a girl know you were here.

Nathalia

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