She spoke with passion.
Lashed out about all the frustrations, the lack of understanding and regard for her obligations from the people around her. The people closest to her. Of the hours of carefully working her chores.
And while she spoke, there were low murmurs and nods of agreement and understanding. Pats on the back. She was in the middle of her own. Her girlfriends.
The only ones to really understand exactly how she felt.
All but me.
This was my contribution to the Fancy Pants spotlight on Road Show transparencies. 
I used mostly Road Show on this one – papers, rub-ons..
Even the glitter-cut, as well as Prima flowers & pearl-swirl. 
The journaling actually started as a blogpost. Namely, this one. It started with a piece of observation, an attempt at a short essay. Then I started to try to explain how I felt regarding writing. What followed was a sort of stream of consciousness-ish piece. When I finished the draft, I was not sure whether to publish it or not – it felt way more personal than before – but I figured… Hm, well, it’d make a nice layout at least. Isn’t what scrapbooking is about? Yet I’m not that good at what I think of as personal journaling. I didn’t even keep diaries when I was young – too afraid it would be read by anybody else and feeling what I wrote was too silly. Still have the same feeling now, but.. hm. If I want to have writing as a part of my living, then I need to work with myself to think – it’s ok, write anything you feel like and can think of – as long as you feel like writing? So here goes. Congratulations if you actually read all the way down on my narcissist writing below :p
When I was in school, and especially at college, Norwegian was one of my favorite subjects. I loved it when we were supposed to write essays, short stories or proses, causeries or whatever – as long as we were writing. Or when we were going to analyze stuff, whether it was a novel, short-story, article or poetry. I truly loved the subject, and I loved the teacher we had. She made us feel like equals, and that she expected much from us in a way that we knew that she knew we could – if we wanted to. And I wanted to.
Enter the University. Oh, the subjects I wanted to study. History. Civics. Human behaviour. Literature. Even English, which I also loved and thought I could handle (I have my doubts now though :p). You know. When you are young, you own the world. I settled for math. At first. I didn’t like math in secondary school. I didn’t understand much and it made me frustrated. But something happened in college. I actually loved math. And hey, I seemed to be good at math. Math as subject was only obligatory the first year. Then you could choose it for your second and third year – if you wanted to. I was the only one in my class who wanted to (we were a small class, only counting seven-eight people). Lucky me I got to continue my study in math. Although I was a bit envious at my class, who had the most fabulous discussions in their chosen subject, which was modern politics, I loved the math-classes with me and my teacher only. It felt good. I loved it because in math, there’s like, only right or wrong. And if you’re wrong, then you’re wrong, and have to retrace the step where you failed so you could be right. Sorta. I liked that. So good that I decided to continue with math at the University.
Uhoh. Not a good idea. I moved on to study (world) literature while pondering what I really wanted to study. I quite enjoyed literature at the University (that’s where I “met” Virginia Woolf and her “Mrs Dalloway”, one of my favorite books till date), but the options for real work walking down that path seemed limited, so I moved on to study Media. Fun! In the middle of it I became pregnant. I finished my exams with a newborn in the room next to me, for breastfeeding in between the writing frenzy. While at home with a baby, I decided I’d study World History and Nordic (language) to keep me entertained (hah!) until the baby was big enough to enter kindergarten so I could continue with the mediastudies. It wasn’t easy, and I only officially finished half the World History study. It felt nice though, having tried.
I really enjoyed the study of media, but wasn’t really sure what I’d do with it. Because of certain circumstances, I didn’t really think I’d have a real chance to actually work in that field. And certainly not as a journalist. Still I continued. This time with my Master’s degree. In the middle of it I had to break off. It turned into a long, long break.
Enter one year ago. I decided it sucked to not being able to do much. I had never had a real job – pretty much only studied – I wanted to see whether I actually was cut for real work ;p And. Get this. I wanted to work as a photographer. I learned to love photography while at my break from the University, much (well ok, because of) thanks to scrapbooking. Was this self-taught love enough for me to actually hold my own in a work-environment where people actually (more or less) depended on my photography-skills?
I got lucky. I got an internship at the local newspaper. Photographing for the paper. Swell. Photojournalism was close to what I felt I could handle, and love about photography. I’ve since learned a lot. I’ve since gotten to take several classes and workshops, trying to further develop my skills. I’ve grown – I don’t know as a photographer, but – being in a real work-environment, having colleagues I love being around – it has truly made me good. And maybe more important – after a while – I’ve gotten the chance to write again. Getting positive feedback. Gaining confidence that I can actually do it. Ever since college ended I’ve been pretty much embarrassed about even attempting to write. My head has always been filled of observations and options I haven’t felt comfortable putting down in writing, even just for myself. I actually hate having anybody just having the chance to look at what I’m writing, even if it’s just chat. I still do :p The feeling of others possibly thinking what I write is silly – it’s ugh.
It has soon been a year. I have grown more confident that this is what I want to do. Be a photographer. Specifically, a photojournalist. I’d like to stay a photographer, but if given the chance once in a while, I’d love to write as well. Practice and hone the art of writing. Yeah, I’d really like that.
What happens now? I don’t know. My term/internship ends by the end of August. I’ve applied to go back and finish my Master’s degree. I doubt I’ll get to re-enter the study, but it’s worth a chance, and realistically, it’d be good for me if I can do it. But really? I’d prefer to get to work like this. The work-market is tough though. Most available positions I’ve seen (and it hasn’t been many – I can count them on one hand the past year) have been out-of-town. Like, really far out-of-town-that-it’s-not-really-realistic for me.
I don’t know.
Never love anything kiddo, you’ll just end up losing it.
But. I’m glad I rediscovered – or maybe rather – unearthed – my love for writing. And that I feel – maybe not safer, but more reinforced - that I want to work with photography. The knowledge however, somehow feels scary, and I know I have a long way to go – but at least I’ve started on the path, no?
Title: “Radio” – The Corrs
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