A little like rain

Rain's been on my mind, as it has for most people in California. But the lack of each drop hits my consciousness a little harder as I drive to my current workplace, 60 miles south of Silicon Valley. Surrounded by farmland, priorities for what a local newspaper should cover shift.

And as I write my "big" climate change story for them, my mind shifts too, now noticing fields turning grey-brown with dust, lands that lie fallow and parched. I am more careful than ever with my showers, with the dishes. As if my turning a tap off could bring prosperity back to these spaces.

The few sprinkles of rain so far have tinged the roadsides and hills a pale green. The air is fresh, the views gentler as I drive. It isn't enough to quench the land, but at least it refreshes our eyes, so tired of brown.

These little things -- struggling farmers, a lack of rain -- they'd skim so easily off international science journals, or editors' plates. Hardly anyone would pay attention to my little story. 1800 words in a daily newspaper with a circulation of 6000. A blog post about cats grabs more eyes than that.

But the story mattered to me, perhaps more than any I've written so far. And I said so, loud and clear, to editors at the two biggest journals there are. I said it's the best thing I've written, and look, this matters. Perhaps not to your impact factor, but to that salad you're eating as you read this.

I was selected for internships at both places, perhaps based on that pitch. For the span of one lovely, too-short day, editors from both publications stopped me in the hallways at a conference to ask if I'd be joining their magazine. I've spent three years waiting to gather my confidence/experience/wits enough to speak to them. For a brief while, I had some measure of all three.

For the span of a few days, I had no uncertainty about my place in this business, or calling myself a writer. For a little while, I was a small fraction ahead of the hundreds of other writers starting out in this game. For that small time, I was soaring, at peace with my choices and potential to make a living.

To be clear, this is only a ten-week internship, not an actual job that pays a living wage. But I'm fickle enough to be driven to tears or rants by one assignment. And a sprinkle of rain can lift my spirits, even if it doesn't quench deeper thirsts.