At the risk of remaining an unknown literary soldier for the rest of my life, I choose to ignore all of that. The truth is, I’m just not interested in that kind of self promotion. I don’t enjoy it. It doesn’t feel good. It makes creativity feel like a burden instead of a source of joy.
People would call me naive if they knew who I was enough to have an opinion. But they don’t know me, and they don’t care, and I’m happy with that.
You hear people saying all the time that if you are your authentic self, if you are honest, if you are sincere, your tribe will find you and rally around you and hold up your work in celebration. I would like it very much if that were true. It might be true. Maybe it is. Maybe those of us who follow that advice belong to a very small, very happy tribe.
Yesterday, I went to the Newseum, which was cooler than I expected. It reminded me that I am indeed a journalist in my own way. I no longer write for other people’s newspapers or magazines. I do not take assignments. I refuse to write anything I don’t love. It is completely rad to be able to say that. I am so exceptionally happy with this arrangement.
I am a journalist of the personal, the intimate, the beautiful, the tragic. I live my life as an immersion reporter, soaking in the gorgeousness of humanity on the front lines and reporting back, “Hey, humanity, remember this? This is you.”