I was in that rare moment when my overly-critical aka insecure writer self was satisfied - proud, even - with what I have written.
I thought my words were poetic. I thought my insights were beautiful. My nerdy fantasies were already lining up, pushing one another for a bit of airtime in my imagination, beginning with the one about the client praising me: "That was a good report. I am impressed." Then I remembered these things don't really happen.
More likely my report will be disregarded, referred to like a boring textbook, or used as a blurb at best by those who really run the show. All jobs come with hazards and mine is about being forgotten. A joke even, to some, and yes they're not too subtle about it.
It may not seem like it, but I don't really want recognition, let alone praise. What I want is respect. Being trapped in the very beginning of the whole process makes exclusion typical. Salingkitkit.
I'm tired of being regarded to as just support, being set aside or hidden because the stage is no place for you, children. I am not a martyr. All martyrs die.
And yes, I'm finding the succession of my posts funny. How time flies.
