The Wordsmith

Joining journalism because you want to write is like painting "bump ahead" on road signs because you want to be a painter. In both the cases you are vaguely aware of the fact that you are technically doing what you intended to do and wanted to do but there is a little voice inside you which tells you that this is probably not the way you wanted to do it. And since the deed is already done and you are sitting in the middle of the road and painting yellow lines or writing "4 injured as bus crashes into tree" you start going into denial and start reassuring yourself that this is exactly what you wanted to do and that painting road signs is the closest you can get to being the next Van Gogh. You paint beautiful lines, use colors other than yellow, you hide little easter eggs in your lines which could have multiple interpretations, you stand back admire your handiwork and think "tomorrow the guy who will drive a car on this road is one lucky bastard because he is going to see all these beautiful lines and appreciate my creativity". In an almost arrogant way you go to your superior, throw your lines at his face and wait for his reaction, wait for him to dish out the Pulitzer (errrr. its equivalent for painting).
He gives you one look, erases all your lines, your beautiful lines each painted with so much love and care and creativity, draws one single straight yellow line and says "people driving on this road tomorrow just need to know their boundaries. No one has the time to appreciate the beauty of your lines," he says.
you stare mournfully as ugly looking yellow lines appear on the road with your name next to them and you promise yourself that this is what you wanted to do. ALWAYS.

Sighhh
Such is life