What a glorious day.

I don’t feel like writing today, but the feeling of guilt if I don’t would likely be much worse.

It would break my heart if this blog degenerated into a journal or a diary. That said, today’s post (like yesterday’s) might seem like it, and if that bugs you I apologize and encourage you to read elsewhere.

Today I’m sort of at the end of my rope. A little tired and stressed. Work at the newspaper was nearly unbearable today because I got stuck with a project that was reminiscent of the sludge plant manual that was the beginning of the end of my tenure as an administrative assistant at another company.

I believe I blogged about the manual at the time. The engineering firm I worked for was preparing an Operations and Maintenance manual for the very first wastewater treatment plant in Venezuela. It was a 200-page manual about sludge treatment. Sludge is the stuff that results after the poop, pee, tampons and condoms you flush get processed at a wastewater treatment plant. I picture a Dr. Seuss like creation with pumping smokestacks and fart-like noises, with a conveyor belt bringing the aforementioned waste products into the plant. At the other end, neatly-wrapped bundles of the finest candy emerge. So, I guess it’s not so much a Seuss-like plant as a Willy Wonka plant. Given corporations predilection to merge, maybe I’m picturing a Seuss-Wonka joint venture.

Anyway, today I had a similarly mind-numbing project, though not as voluminous. My editor gave me a 25-page document containing all of Washington County’s arrest and conviction records from the past two weeks, and it was my job to format them to Associated Press (AP) style.

At first it was kind of fun; I felt a little like the neighborhood gossip stumbling across inside information. It’s interesting to see what types of people get busted for what; 23-year old females popped for identity theft, 50-year old men with no auto insurance, driving drunk, 18-year olds nailed with drugs.

The number of drug arrests and convictions was staggering, by the way. My guess is that a third of them were drug-related. I couldn’t help but do the math in my head, wondering just how much money went into delving out “justice” for these poor saps possessing a joint. And being an ultra-cynic, I picture the sheriff, judge and bailiff heading to the local watering hole at the end of the day, clinking 20-ounce mugs of beer patting each other on the back for “A job well done.”

Anyway, it didn’t take long for the task to become a terrible chore. The document never ended; I kept thinking I was near the end, but when I looked at the bottom of my screen it read “Page 4 of 25,” “Page 6 of 25,” and so on. I couldn’t help but think that this is what Purgatory will be like. I’ll be on the last page of the document and Satan will tap me on the shoulder and say “Hey, I just saved ten more pages to your folder. Be a doll and format them, then call my masseuse and tell her I need a hoof massage tonight.”

Usually what keeps me going at times like this is a twofold thought. First, I try to remind myself that this job is an important step towards my eventual career goal. Today this tack failed miserably for two reasons. First, I’m reasonably sure at this point that being a reporter at a small-town newspaper is not my dream job. It’s all well and good that the local senior center just opened an audio-visual room and Tuesday is movie night, but with Iran giving the finger to the U.N. and furthering their nuclear weapons program (again, in a Seuss-Wonka type factory with steam and flurgle-burgles and blenga-shmingees), I find my mind drifting to more pressing matters, like survival.

Second, as I mentioned previously even if I entertained notions of becoming a staff writer there, it’s not going to happen. There’s a hiring freeze instituted by the new parent corporation that recently acquired us, and besides over a dozen better-qualified (and more interested) writers applied for the position.

The other thing that entirely failed to get me through this task was the reassuring thought that “Well, at least it’s paying the bills.” Again, as I mentioned on a previous blog, I am not even breaking even with this position. I’m hemorrhaging money. A third of my daily income is spent on gasoline for the commute. Today I got home from work and found that Xcel Energy—who I trashed in an earlier column and can’t help but feel they’re now out to get me—slapped a $3 late fee on our monthly bill. This seems like a very low amount, but I have to work 20 minutes to earn $3. $3 will buy me the gallon of gas I need to travel to my low-paying job. $3 is around $10 more than I have.

Adding further insult to injury is the fact that the Gazette has hired (“hired” is a strange word to use when columnists are unpaid) a new columnist named Larry. Larry has tugged the heartstrings of editors and local residents with countless letters to the editor illustrating that he cares. For those unaware of how the world works, caring is a convenient loophole allowing one to get out of actually doing anything about the issues one cares about. Anyway, my editor spoke with Larry and invited him to be a weekly columnist.

Larry was supposed to continue the trend he began in his letters: Exuding compassion and wisdom. Unfortunately, once Larry got in print “officially” he went Hollywood. Both of Larry’s columns have been attempts at humor, and I have to say as a person who enjoys humor—both writing and reading it—Larry’s attempts fell sadly short of the mark. That’s being kind; the brutal truth is that his humor columns are festering turds.

Larry’s column this week was written from the perspective of our editor, and it proclaimed that so negative was the reaction to Larry’s debut column that she fired him, anyone remotely associated with his hiring, and even the paperboys who delivered the papers. At the end of the column was a disclaimer stating quite clearly that the column was written in jest by Larry, not in seriousness by our editor. Please note that in my opinion, any humor requiring a disclaimer that it is humor is not humor in any way, shape or form. It’s like movies featuring animated chickens flashing the obligatory “Any resemblance between the characters in this film and real people is unintended and wholly coincidental.” Just how stupid are people?

Well, surprise: They’re really stupid. The phone was ringing off the hook at the newspaper today and my editor’s e-mail box was full. People were up in arms over the fact that the editor would dare fire Larry and the people who distributed his column. “Don’t you know there are seniors reading your paper?” asked one letter-writer, “How are they to know it was a joke?”

Well, for starters, how about because it said it WAS a joke?

People canceled their subscriptions over this and the fallout continues. What bothered me the most was that after my editor told our publisher about the incident, he appeared excited to the point of giddy. People were reacting—albeit negatively—and any pub is good pub, apparently. He approached me in the hallway and we had a brief, foreboding conversation.

“Do you get much reaction to your column?” he asked me.

“Not really,” I replied, probably too honestly in hindsight. “I’ve gotten a couple of e-mails, but other than that, nothing much.”

I realized at that moment that, though my column is the best-written column in the paper (forgive my immodesty, but it’s true) the lack of reaction to it could very likely prove to be the ultimate death knell.

Bear in mind this is the perception of a guy who was already having a really bad day. Still, life has taught me that if death comes in threes, then pains in the ass come to the power of ten. Not that losing my column would be the end of my world by any stretch. I’ve begun writing for the school paper again, and if my faculty adviser’s reaction to my debut column is any indication, good things are in store on that front. Also, I received word that my school is going to begin publishing a magazine, so tomorrow I hope to attend the kick-off meeting for that venture.

Books about writing say that ultimately, if you’re writing for feedback and accolades rather than for yourself, then you’re not really a writer. I believe I do write for myself; if I didn’t write, I would probably go crazy. It’s so much a part of my days now that I couldn’t imagine not sitting down at the computer for a half hour each day and just spewing my deepest, darkest thoughts.

That said, however, it does grow frustrating not getting much feedback. My pal Leab over at Ironic Teachings has expressed similar sentiments. I know that he pours his heart and soul into his work and when his lengthy, articulate posts garner only one or two comments, it at the least makes him scratch his head in puzzlement, and at worst makes him want to throw up his hands and scream “What the hell do you people want, anyway?”

I know that when I churn out what I believe to be a good Who’s News, a regular Sunday feature on Admin Worm, I get frustrated when it generates only one or two lackadaisical comments. My profile count just surpassed 1,000 this week, and that’s only due to the fact that after being linked on The Crallspace (thanks, Dan) I got 300 hits in one week. Crall has been online since June 2005 and has over 5,000 profile views. Not that he hasn’t earned them, but I can’t help but wonder “Why aren’t people looking at my blog in those numbers?”

I recently purchased “The Writer’s Market” book after a friend who earns his living freelancing recommended it. One thing is clear: I can’t and won’t change my writing; therefore maybe it’s time to change my audience. I hope to begin submitting pieces to larger, more reputable publications, and if I don’t get published at least perhaps I’ll get an idea of what I’m doing wrong, or right.

I’ll close by saying that I recently began taking medication for anxiety and one of the potential side-effects is increased appetite. I’ve written recently how I’ve changed my eating habits and begun exercising and thus lost over 10 pounds rather quickly. The past couple of days, thanks to this medication, I’ve consumed more food in 48 hours than I am accustomed to consuming in a week. I ate lunch at work at noon, and when I got home at 2:30 I had a full can of soup, and for desert chocolate frosting out of the container washed down with a glass of milk. When my wife gets home at 6:00 I’ll sit down and have dinner with her and I’m hoping she’ll bring a brownie mix home.

That medication is getting flushed down the toilet. It’s clearly not helping the anxiety, and gaining the weight back is guaranteed to increase my feelings of unease.

Have a good evening, people.