Page 2 - Why Podcasting?

(Music fades in)

Oh hi! I’m MJ Bailey, and I write things. Sometimes. It doesn’t mean I always know what to write, but hey, we’ll get there. I guess.

I write things, yes, kind of like this show. But this show isn’t a strictly written thing. I mean, it started off that way.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

I took some thoughts, outlined them, and pulled them together into a script. But then I also recorded the script, edited the resulting audio file, and posted it to Blubrry, my podcast host of choice. 

So this is not just a written work anymore. It is a podcast. I have many of them. But I also have (or had) a blog on Medium where I posted similar thoughts. So I know that other venues exist. I’m not bound to this one. If anything, it might not make sense to use this particular medium. Podcasting hosting fees are going to run me about $12 a month. Medium is free for its most basic features or $5 if you want a modest upgrade. Also see the aforementioned sound editing. It can take ten to thirty minutes for every one minute of completed audio–at least the way I do it. It would be so much easier to just stick with Medium and scoop up a few pennies at a time for my troubles. But I don’t want to do that.

And that should be enough. “I don’t want to do that” is a full sentence, a completely developed thought, etc, etc. This is my writing, my material, and my thoughts. I can do with it what I see fit. But I think there is something kind of telling about me running back to podcasting, back to this figurative home, you could call it.

And I have called it that on Twitch when someone asks me about getting started making things. The specific question can take on a variety of forms, but regardless, more often than not, my answer leads back to podcasting. And now my thought process, in terms of making this open diary, has also led me back to podcasting. 

Because I can’t really deny that this medium and/or my experience in it has profoundly shaped my identity as a creative. 

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

I started podcasting in 2018, but the seeds were first laid in 2017. I was working a shitty temp job whose duration I could not know. I had to keep a program running in the 30 days between the last program manager left, and the next one started. And that sounds incredibly straightforward on paper, but it turned out to be anything but. The 30 days was just an estimate. On paper, there was no strict end date. So what was supposed to last for 30 days turned into a multi-month assignment. I stayed there from August to December until I had a non-movable trip on the calendar. They still hadn’t found anyone when I left, and there wasn’t even a temp after me. Just an empty space. 

I’m sure this is a common story. I’m sure even the best workplaces have moments where they just can’t get the right person into the role, and whatever temporary measures they put in place don’t stay temporary. And look, the agent that placed me would have been fine with me leaving. They said as much to me multiple times, but I was also hoping that this company would ask me to stay. I thought I could prove myself. And when you combine that with the general dysfunction of the office, specifically the team I had been assigned to, oh wow that’s a great time, isn’t it?

It wasn’t the worst possible work situation, but I felt isolated and alone. There were days when I didn’t get a kind word from anyone. I had two managers: one who never had time to acknowledge me and one who just refused to do so. So for the most part, I was just left in a cubicle doing nondescript white collar stuff. And this was one of my first jobs, too. I was in the rare sort of circumstance that I could get by with temping. I was a temp in high demand what with my degrees, and I had some savings from a death I hadn’t even been able to acknowledge five years earlier, meaning the money that made up my inheritance was largely untouched. 

I gotta say in theory, that’s sort of a best case scenario. I had a chance to try out different work environments and different management styles until I had a sense of what it is that worked for me. Then when it came time to get something permanent, I would know exactly what to ask for. 

Great on paper. Absolutely fell apart in reality. 

I was far from home too. I was in Illinois, and my mom–the only relative I knew about in the United States–was in Arizona. My friends from high school and college were spread out just as broadly, and I was having trouble meeting people in the city. Partially because I didn’t have the temperament for temp work, so I was more exhausted than I would have liked to be. But also I did not know where to go. 

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

I had a few contacts and a phone full of podcasts. That got me through the worst of this particular assignment: of working my ass off for bosses who couldn’t or wouldn’t notice because somehow I convinced myself there was a reward for it when in reality the continued opening was a red flag and not an invitation. 

Also I was starting to truly grapple with the fact that I wasn’t straight. It was something I had always been aware of, but because I was still attracted to men, I could just focus on that and not worry about the details. Men and women, I thought to myself, I have options. And for the longest time in my life, it was all about taking the easiest of the two options. But when I went to graduate school and met a woman I couldn’t stop thinking about, the question couldn’t be set aside anymore. 

In other texts, I called that woman, V. V was the first woman I fell in love with in a way that I couldn’t ignore. She was beautiful but taken, and yet, I couldn’t let her go. 

And then came my first romantic relationship, a trainwreck I cannot even begin to describe here. But on the whole, it was hard for me to hold onto the few relationships I had from graduate school while I was actively grieving a friendship built on a secret love and lust. And so, I found myself missing the act of being in a conversation while not being able to fully participate in one. My soul was hurting. It was getting beaten down by my day job every day. There was only so much I could do.

And in that situation, podcasts are the answer. I had a few I clung to at the time. CGP Grey’s two podcasts Hello Internet and Cortex are some of the ones that stand out to me. As does all the offerings from Night Vale Presents. These were shows I had known about from my before time, before that shitty job, or rather, I had some connection to them through creatives whose talents I had come to trust. And honestly, these shows alone ended up making something like a perfect storm. Hello Internet reminded me how wonderful the internet could be, especially for someone who had creative inklings, and Cortex reminded me of how much I could do, that self-employment wasn’t some far off impossible concept. It couldn’t be rushed into, but it wasn’t the sort of thing only a select chosen group could do. It required some care, some consideration, and the right mind set, but it could be done. Maybe even by me. 

As for Night Vale Presents, Alice Isn’t Dead gave me the chance to really consider or think about the fact that I had really been in love with women and that I didn’t need to be afraid of it. There was beauty there. There was also real emotion and grief in that V and I didn’t come together. There were feelings I’d have to explain. Or not. It would be my choice, and there would be power and artistry in that choice. 

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

Podcasting shaped my worldview. When I left the classroom and joined the workforce, those shows became unintentional teachers, shaping my creative identity and larger hopes. I had never thought about making online content before, but now, it was all I could think about. It just seemed so approachable. And the more I looked into it, the more that proved true. I could get an RSS feed for what I made in an hour. I could get that and upload a podcast across the internet, and then I would be a part of this world. I would have made something. 

And look, there were more practical considerations too. If you’re able to get ads on your podcast, the ad rate tends to be better in this medium than it is on YouTube. Or that’s what I’ve heard. I cannot confirm nor deny if that was ever accurate. But it was something I was willing to believe. After all, I didn’t have the video editing skills or software for YouTube, and the sound editing software Audacity was free. And I didn’t have the face for YouTube. My voice isn’t great, but I kind of like it. And other people do too. 

I couldn’t afford to hire other voice actors, not that I knew how to do so or how to direct them. But I had a voice, so if I focused on shows that didn’t rely on a range outside of what I could do, then I could create these sorts of things and actually release something into the world. 

And maybe then I would feel like a real writer! Just kidding that part never actually happened.

Also, and this wisdom does still hold true even after all these years, it’s easier to get a traditional publishing deal if you already have a platform that can be leveraged to sell books. It doesn’t matter, exactly, what your platform is composed of, what your content is, what you are trying to write or whatever the relationship is between what you have made and what you want to make. If all eyes–or ears–are on you then, you can sell something, and really, that’s a great deal of what is pushing traditional publishing right now. That’s what it’s been prioritizing.

And at the time, a traditional publishing contract was my ultimate goal. That was the world I wanted to be in.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

It wasn’t until I got into podcasting that I started to rethink that goal. When I got to tell the fiction stories I wanted to tell, when I got to push boundaries by telling a story in second person, when I realized how well the queer community could thrive in a world that didn’t have any commercial interest in telling us no. That’s what sets the podcasting world apart from so many other mediums. The communities have to find each other, but in that act, there is an opt in, a choice to support each other as we be whatever we want to be and create whatever resonates with us. 

I liked that, that freedom and that community. The freedom struck a familiar chord deep within me. It was this need to see the world in a different way, to see the hidden threads, connections that so many other people did not notice. I thrived in those connections, the hidden worlds or the pockets of what was recognized. That was where I was comfortable. It was sort of an intellectual home, as it were. It was the place where I felt safe. 

It took me a few months after leaving that shitty temp assignment to find the energy to release my first show, but once I did, there was no going back.

And that isn’t to say this has been a unanimously easy or great journey. I’ve Irish Goodbyed a couple podcasts, to be honest. I have more ideas for shows than I do time. I have started some projects that I am now neglecting. Oh and The Oracle of Dusk podcast got slammed in the ratings specifically Australia, weirdly enough. On the whole, my podcasting journey has never been simple or easy or without some creative difficulties, but regardless, I have always been in control. I was making whatever I wanted to make and that inspired me to make more things. And I felt myself actually grow into my creative power more and more. 

I was still working on books, thinking about what the querying process would look like. I even tried it a time or two, but something felt off… Particularly as I looked at agent’s manuscript wishlists and how neatly everything seemed to fit. Set categories, concepts, etc, etc. It makes sense, sure. Don’t get me wrong. I completely understand, and I’m sure they would have welcomed some blending of boundaries or rules twisting. But agents have their limits. Publishers have their limits. They have safety zones that they need to stay in simply because of the scope of the traditional publishing endeavor, all the people involved, and all the pieces that have to be constantly propped up. It’s a balancing act, and I understand that the uneven plates that I bring to the function might not always be welcomed. 

And there are a couple of possible reactions, right? I could have made things that better fit those molds until I established myself or I could just not, otherwise unspecified. In this case, I chose the latter. I chose to not engage in that world and to just do my own thing.

This was a shocking development to someone who was so dead set on traditional publishing, really. But at the same time, I’ve had a taste of the creative freedom that podcasting can give someone. And for me, it’s hard to go back. If I could ever go back. And it’s a new world out there. As the large presses consolidate, they narrow their offerings, and I might be able to scope up readers who can’t find what they want otherwise. 

In theory, of course, because self-publishing is hard. Podcasting can also be hard at times, especially in the marketing department, so it’s not something I’m not used to. But on the whole, I am not good at talking about myself. Or what it is I write. Which is partially what this podcast is.

The entire premise of this show is that I’m going to be talking about my work, the things I write, and the things I want to write more of. Which, I will admit, is kind of daunting. I want the record of my feelings, but I want it to just exist with minimal effort on my part. Except that’s not possible. 

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

So in lieu of it, I should be back in my roots, back where I felt so secure, back to the place that made so much of what I’m doing now possible.

Back to podcasting.

So with that, I’m MJ Bailey, and I’m a writer, I guess. Whatever that means.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

The Writer’s Open Book is a podcast from Miscellany Media Studios. It is written, edited, and produced by MJ Bailey with music from the Sounds like an Earful music supply. The logo was made by Keldor777 on Twitch. And to the Queen of Cups in my life, you know who you are, thank you for helping me process so much of this writing journey and for all the support. I couldn’t have done it without you.