It still makes me sick

Moments before sunrise, the visitors center at Agate Fossil Beds National Monument is still obscured in fog.

Sometimes, you reach a point in your life where you think, “fuck it. I’m going to tell the story.” I don’t want to hold onto the bullshit anymore. It’s time to tell the story so I can move on.

Writing has always been a solace to me. I lose myself in the words. My tinnitus settles down. The world around me disappears. Although I’ve written most of my life, I didn’t start making money doing it until I was hired at the Star-Herald. I have fond and terrible memories of working there.

Just before he hired me, my first editor, Steve said, “I can’t teach you how to write, you already know how to do that. But I can teach you how to be a good reporter.” It was a good kick in the confidence for me. The first few months, I conducted story interviews with a post-it filled with questions. I would sneak it under a table and stick it to my leg for reference. As time went on, I wrote fewer questions. Eventually, I simply stopped using post-its.

One day, as I sat typing at my desk, Steve walked briskly out of his office and stood near my desk. With one hand on on his hip and the other holding a folded newspaper, he said my name at an elevated level. I stopped writing and looked at him.

“What’s up?” I tried to be calm, but my brain was already permutating a thousand calculations about what was going to happen next.

“How do I look to you,” he said.

“Shit,” I thought to myself. I fucked up and have no idea what I did. He’s pissed. I didn’t respond quick enough and Steve added, “Do I look excited to you?”

No, dude. You look fucking perturbed and I’m sorry for whatever the hell I did. Thankfully, I didn’t say that out loud. “You look a bit upset,” I said. I leaned away from him and raised an eyebrow as I spoke. Seriously, what the fuck did I do?

“If I was excited, how would I look?”

“Uh, you’d probably be more animated?” Shit. Did I use the word excited in a story? It had to be yesterday because I’m still typing today’s story.

Steve pointed toward another reporter’s desk and began talking about why you shouldn’t use that word unless you are actually jumping up and down, waving your arms around. He had the “waving your arms around” part down. I don’t remember exactly what he said, but my brain stored the information as “Excited, bad. Do not us, or die.”

After he went back into his office, I wrote “excited” under “unique” and “very” on a post-it taped to my desk. My assistant editor, Bart, taught me why “very” and “unique” should be rarely used. The short explanation is they are lazy words. I don’t ever want to be a lazy writer.

These were valuable lessons. I still fondly remember after Bart was promoted to editor, sitting in his office talking about the Oxford comma, and other writing techniques. Those conversations reminded me of the thoughtfulness he had about writing and how he tried to help other reporters write well. I think I’m the only one who bookmarked sites he recommended, like the one about writing better headlines, and paid attention when he took us through a multi-day training on being photography. It was useful shit to learn and apply to my writing.

I valued conversations with my first two editors. That stagnated with my third editor, who went from rarely reading anything I wrote to never reading anything I wrote. I would drop an 800-word story into the “edit” folder only to see it move to “front” less than five seconds later. My editor never even opened it.

Regardless of how long or short my story was, he didn’t read it. My friend, Candice, was our lead copy editor and I would often text her in a panic. She always replied with “don’t worry. I got ya.”

My editor’s behavior stressed me out. I’m not perfect. I make mistakes. The copy desk told me I turned in “clean” copy with few to no typos or grammatical mistakes. I know that. What I wanted to know was did the story flow? Did I accidentally bury the lede? Did I forget something?

By the time I reached editor #3, I had won multiple awards for my writing. My confidence had grown. Eventually, it became too much. When the Star-Herald won as the best newspaper in the state, he took the credit for it. The contest reviewers chose three random months and requested one issue from each month be sent in. I was the one who went through those three months of papers. He took the credit and never acknowledged that I even helped.

I was asked to write a book about the Scotts Bluff National Monument’s 100th anniversary. I was told it was all I would do and other reporters would pick up my beats. Instead, the company laid off a reporter, so I had to do part of his work, my own work, and this book. My editor never read a single proof and prohibited anyone else in the office from helping once he found out three of them read the first draft.

On the final proof, the editor informed me he rewrote the introduction, but “don’t worry. I gave you credit.” He reworded what I wrote and put in one sentence that I did good work on the book. It implied he was in charge, he was responsible. I was pissed. I blew a gasket in the publishers office. There were plenty of “fucks” and “jackasses” flowing from my mouth. In the end, it was determined his stupid face was in the book as “editor” and I was given “project editor.” I was banned from the book launch and had to purchase my own copies. Seven years later, it still bothers me. Don’t fucking take credit for shit you didn’t do.

There is so much more, but that’s for another time. My therapist later told me. “Your relationship with [third editor] was toxic and abusive.” He went from friendly to adversarial for no reason other than I refused to apologize for being a better writer than him.

I knew I needed to leave. I had started to become physically ill. My doctor had me wear a heart monitor for three days. When I sat in her office discussing the results, she told me my job was going to cause a heart attack and I was likely going to die at work. I love to write, but I love to live more. So, I left.

On the trail at the Scotts Bluff National Monument, October 2, 2024.

Four years later, I was about to celebrate my fourth anniversary working at the local youth shelter when I was approached to write for a local, monthly newspaper magazine. I had done some freelance writing in the meantime, but stopped because I always got shafted on the pay. I’m still owed $800.

The job at the youth shelter was rewarding, but writing brings me a peace I can’t find anywhere else. The fourth editor and I discussed how many stories I could write each month. I wrote at least 24 articles a month at the paper, but those were typically 500-800 words each. These stories were profiles on people, 1,800-3,000 words each. I honestly didn’t know how much I could do. The fourth editor asked if I could write 20 stories a month. I said I could try, but give me a few months to get up to speed and we can readdress what I am actually capable of.

Two months later, I was writing 15-17 stories a month. I got a raise, but it still worked out to be less than minimum wage when it was all said and done. Every story was reviewed by the interviewee, a practice I’m not comfortable with. Sometimes, people completely rewrote what I wrote, for whatever fucking reason, which caused more work for me.

Deadlines shifted every damn month. I always got a phone call of “we need more stories.” Dude. I’m already working seven days a week, up to 12 hours a day. I tried to address it with the fourth editor. Promises were made. Promises were not kept.

I was asked to write a travel brochure on the entire Panhandle for this publication. When I asked for payment, the editor, who was also the co-owner, shuffled me off to the other co-owner. This guy told me he understood I wrote the travel brochure for nothing to make up for not getting 20 stories a month. A discussion was had. I went back and forth several times and never got paid.

Eventually, I put my foot down. I can only write 5-8 stories. Fine. Then, the pushback came. We want you to write more. Can you do a few more as we’re short again. I nearly had a breakdown. I was crying in my living room when Paul told me to stop working. For the year that I worked for this fourth editor, I was nauseous all the time. I never felt like what I did was good enough and I was placated with stupid phrases and no encouragement.

Two months later, my mother was in a head-on collision. I kept my podcast going because it was writing I enjoyed and I needed it to keep myself sane. I kept writing here on my blog, too.

Jay, the superintendent for the Scotts Bluff National Monument and Agate Fossil Beds National Monument, approached me to write a book about the Geology and Paleontology of both sites. Of course I said yes. I will have the assistance of two paleontology interns.

I will start writing later today. The outline is done. I am terrified I’m going to fuck it up. It’s hard to ignore the years of bad editors who broke me down instead of building me up.

Jay called me yesterday with words of encouragement. “I’m really glad we’re going to be working on this together.” The knot in my stomach subsided a little bit. I didn’t feel like I was going to puke.

The fear is still there. I don’t want to fuck this up. The tail end of the journey I had to take to get to this moment still makes me sick when I think about it. Then, I remember there are people who have your back and want to help you succeed, and my stomach settles a little bit. I’m a little nauseous, but don’t need to puke.

I still hope I don’t fuck this up, but I also think I got this.