the navel times and observer

There is a part of me, it seems an ever decreasing thought before about midnight on Saturdays, that knows that rationally, logically, I will not be a great designer, or even a competent designer with a total of maybe 11 nights spent working on the Sunday paper (I've been there actually about three months now, started April 11 and my probation period ends Tuesday).

I know, for instance, that I really have had only about 11 nights to practice the skills needed to get that newspaper together quickly efficiently. I know, logically, that regardless of experience everyone really does make mistakes and when you're there working alone nobody's looking over your shoulder to correct them immediately.

I know, logically, that there's plenty of steps in putting that newspaper together and, given my experience, I can't be expected to master or, in some cases, even know what those steps are. Some things are learned with experience.

I know, and my editor knows, and my editor confirmed that he knows Friday that I had extremely little design experience with any sort of design before getting here (having watched my friend design pages for the most part in high school and having designed all of one page for my copyediting/design class in college). I knew, logically, that there would be a lot to learn when I accepted this job and I certainly acknowledged those when I was considering taking the job and blogging about it months ago.

I know, rationally, that there must be some glimmer of intellingence in this dim, incompetent, boring, dry asshole that I get to see in the mirror every morning and spend most of my nights and weekends with. For that matter there's gotta be some kindness and a sense of humor and, in an extremely limited group of women (for extremely limited times at that), someone someone could see as, at the very least, a nice date.

However, in another, far more accessible and wholly different part of my mind I am just another moron ridiculously exhausting the resources of this little planet.

That's the part of mind that takes over on Saturday nights when I'm late for deadline regardless of most of the newspaper already being written and all but two pages already designed for me. I still manage to get the damn paper out late and get it to the plant late and every other step after that is just ridiculously late.

It's those last minutes as I finish designing the last page and get them sent over to the press plant computer that I spend alone in the newsroom screaming curses at myself over my vast incompetence at doing this little job (which, in the great grand scheme of things is fantastically easy).

I hate being stupid, I hate being stupid and somehow it's almost a comfort to be mad at myself for being incomplete. I've always drawn a lot of energy from self-flagellation (in the verbal sense only and just enough energy to finish the project before the act of grilling myself saps the rest of it). It makes a lot more sense in my dim little mind than rewarding myself with confidence and it feels an awful lot more real than being self-assured.

I am a pretty pathetic creature and it seems like I'm the first person to realize it. At the same time I have flaws that, as much as I hate them, are flaws that almost everyone on the planet shares.

I just don't accept them with a lot of grace.

Ciao.