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| Matty Jacobson edits and contributes to The Skewed Review |
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ACTIVISM
I've heard it can take a lifetime to figure out what occupation would perfectly suit you. Well, it's taken me less than three years to find out exactly what I
don't want to do.
When I signed on to be a writer for our college newspaper in 2008, I was a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed non-traditional student with a backpack stuffed with fresh life views and glitter, and pockets filled with hope, wonder and stardust.
So basically I was a 27-year-old My Little Pony.
Journalism, as I knew it then, was an outlet for creative storytellers like myself to relay the tales of astonishing events and perplexing people. I was so familiar with Vogue and Rolling Stone. I knew the authors of these captivating articles must love their jobs; they get to travel, they get to meet interesting people, and they get paid to write it all down for others to enjoy.
But little did I know that journalism is entirely founded upon a "break, then remake" principle. The first article I wrote for Dixie State College's Dixie Sun was hacked to pieces by the editors with little more than a huff and a demand for a revised version of my once beautiful piece of art. I distinctly remember writing the article and thinking to myself that the imagery I'd painted with my words, the way in which I phrased my questions, and the presentation of the entire package made what would have otherwise been an utterly bland bowl of cold porridge a 17-course gourmet tasting dinner.
But embellishments, especially any meant to make reading a news article even remotely pleasant, are highly frowned upon, apparently. I was told to trash the gourmet meal and scrounge up my most mediocre version of gruel.
And since then? Well, I've become so ingrained with the formulaic, expressionless form of so-called news writing that I sometimes fear my creative tank is just a tick or two above E. But that's how they want it.
After my first article was butchered, I remember thinking (and even exclaiming aloud in a fit of passion), "No wonder the newspaper industry is dying!"
Almost all creativity housed within me has since been extracted and discarded, and the empty shell that was once full of music, art, poetry, fashion and culture was then refilled with word counts, deadlines, grammatical purism, and Associated Press rules.
There are myriad things I'd rather be doing. I want to sketch, draw, color and paint. I want to play music, sing, act and dance. I want to write poetry and stories and read them aloud. I want to leave this life of drudgery behind.
So the question still remains: Why would I continue doing something I've come to loathe so much?
It's such a conundrum, and also a tragedy, because I've essentially sacrificed my creativity for a chance to climb the editorial ladder. After just one semester on staff, I was offered the position of arts & entertainment editor. It was the proverbial carrot dangling in front of me, and wouldn't you know it? I was the perfect horse's ass. I mean, how awesome would it be to be the
editor of arts & entertainment? What a title!
Yes, I was drawn by the small amount of authority it would give me. I won't lie. That editor title was like the power of Greyskull. It turned my meager prince Adam into the mighty He-Man and stuck a giant tiger named Battlecat between my legs.
Well, I already had that second part taken care of. But I digress.
The glory of my editorship was short-lived. It turned out to be little more than an arranger of articles whose job it was to keep track of ten other people and do just as much additional research each week.
Was I tricked into taking a position that I now know was only vacant because the amount of time needed to fulfill the duties takes up double the amount of time regular schoolwork does? Maybe last year I would have called it a conspiracy theory, but now I think it was a bit premeditated--especially considering the offer came along with a note of encouragement that I'm perfect Editor-in-Chief material.
So, like the good little pet I apparently am, I stayed on, climbing the ranks. And here I am today: the Editor-in-Chief. And what do I have to show for it? Well, a load of student debt that'll take me triple the amount of years to pay off as it did to incur, for one thing. I also get my very own jail cell, which happens to have a computer in it. And every day I get to edit other people's work and do to them what was done to me. I don't even get a day off of cutting down the staffers' work and spirit. I pare away the creativity of others and assure that our readers get nothing less than the equivalent of something even David Copperfield wouldn't want if offered seconds.
And no, I'm not talking about the magician. Unfortunately, I've put myself in a position where I need to explain those sorts of things. After all, I'm only allowed to write for the lowest reading level one can get away with while attending college. And from what I've seen, I'd say that's around fourth or fifth grade.
So why stay? Well, I have committed myself. One thing I've come to loathe during my time as an ignored journalist is a quitter. I despise writers who quit. I despise sources who cancel. I despise readers whose attention span doesn't extend beyond a paragraph or two if I'm writing about anything other than Britney Spears' vagina.
At this point in this article, I can only assume I've managed to shake off those readers with more important things to do, like watch "Keeping Up With the Kardashians," I guess. Hopefully I'm with like-minded company by now.
I've realized my passion isn't embedded somewhere in the dark recesses of this dying medium. I'm not the get-the-answers-at-any-cost kind of guy. I'm a reflective sort. Yes, I seek the truth. But I also analyze it. And unless I'm employed at a 24-hour cable news network, then there's little room for analysis when I'm reporting on the latest beauty pageant. At this point, I'm only here because I'm a man of my word, or at least I'm striving to be.
Perhaps I have much to atone for. I've not been known to be a man of solid promises in the past. I was never really one who could be counted upon to do anything other than drugs. But I am determined to prove to myself I can see through any task, even one as daunting and life-extinguishing as this.
I'll end on a positive note, though. I'm flexing my creative muscles in an attempt to regain what I feel was lost over the past three and half years. I'm putting the finishing touches on, as cliche as it is, a novel. Please, hold your laughter for when you see me in person. Even if it's at my expense, the sound of merriment still manages to alleviate my torture--even if just by a fraction.
My book is essentially my story, but super fictionalized. All the elements of my life are there--plus time travel. And no, it's not some brooding love story about a teenage boy who falls in love with a sparkly time traveller. However, I don't make any promises that references to such stories aren't mentioned and subsequently bashed in my novel.
It's as serious as a story about time travelling can be, which, when you think about it, is pretty serious. I mean, Michael J. Fox nearly lost his hand while playing "Johnny B. Goode" for the class of '55 because of it.
But in all actuality, I had to take my pent up sarcasm that's lost on a collegiate audience and put it somewhere. So while my tale is a serious one, it's a serious one from the point of view of a very sardonic and facetious person.
Think "Girl With the Dragon Tattoo" if it were full of "That's what she said jokes" and time-travelling drag queens.
So for those of you who managed to get this far in an article that in itself could be a novel, I hope it pays off. I'm going to publish the prologue of my book on this website next month. I'm sure there'll be an inclination to give me feedback, and if you think you must then I'm not going to stop you. But I am hoping the story will intrigue you enough that you'll want to purchase the rest of the book. I'm going to be listing it for 99 cents.
Will it be the next "Tale of Two Cities?" Probably not. Hell, I don't even expect it to get to "Disco Bloodbath" fame, which really only found its cult following after Macualay Culkin, Seth Green, and Marilyn Manson did a film version of it. But that's neither here nor there. I'm just hoping you'll enjoy the prologue enough to seek the rest of the book.
Thanks for staying with me, and thanks for giving me the drive to regain my creativity.
Peace out, bitches.
