There is something wrong with me.
I came to this desperate conclusion when I realised that the numerous job applications I have submitted over the last six months have yet to garner a successful interview.
Today marks two years since I graduated from university and at the time, it was a huge, anti-climatic, personal achievement. Come graduation day, I was so worn down by three years of constant work and pressure to achieve, I couldn’t have cared less if my cap was fitted correctly or if my gown was facing the right way.
Of course, that sunny Friday was an unexplainable source of joy for the ‘rents, especially my old man who actually smiled from the depths of his being as I had my picture taken in all my pomp and glory.
Embarrassingly, I envisaged an effortless stroll into a job.
Ha, how naivety looms like a pink elephant.
Picture courtesy of Gonzaga University Career Centre blog
Sometimes I lie awake in bed and wonder where it all went wrong. My stubborn relentless nature will not let me give up on the only thing I feel I’ve been put on earth to do; to bridge the gap between the have and the have-nots.
Communication is one of the most important yet underestimated tools known to man. Have you ever read something and felt a lump in your throat, felt an overwhelming sense of sympathy? Joy? Confusion? Or been touched, affected, or spoken to in a way that has made you want to make a change, big or small? This, for me, is the infinite power of journalism.
My move back to the city is imminent and I’ve started to worry that without that golden salaried job that encompasses my skills, passion and overwhelming sense of curiosity, I will struggle – struggle to pay the rent, the bills, struggle with an internal sense of fear and disappointment.
Though, I am lucky. I am not homeless, destitute or in a terrible financial situation, so I am thankful – extremely grateful. But the one thing that I can’t get back is the time – the time I spent slavishly interning at newspaper after newspaper, being the well-dressed and well-spoken dogsbody and telling myself that this is a rite of passage. I can never reclaim the hundreds of minutes I have spent in the presence of senior figures, clad in the equivalent of three months’ rent, who see me as either a threat or non-entity.
I’ve grown bored of opening the Guardian Magazine and reading the same ramblings by their nauseatingly middle-class American columnist; so tired of the verbose ramblings of their wirters and smug columnists; unmoved at the exploits of the Henrys, Tiggys and Hugos in their demeaning and socially unaware columns; irritated by the lack of original and informative content that people crave to read about.
I mean, how many times have you logged onto news websites and read ‘news’ stories like:
“YOU MOSS BE JOKING: KATE DOES SOMETHING OTHER THAN BEING PHOTOGRAPHED LEAVING A CLUB.”
Or: “TATTS ENOUGH! PEACHES GETS ANOTHER TATTOO. AND GETS FIRED FROM ANOTHER HIGH PROFILE JOB.”
What about, “SILLY LILY: SHIT-EATING SMILE SINGER COMPLAINS ABOUT THE PAPS. AGAIN.”
It’s starting to become patronising and insulting. Newspapers are neglecting news; hard news that shapes and defines people’s lives. It doesn’t make sense that there are so many hungry young upstarts desperately wanting to go along to magistrates’ court, eager to phone up the local busybody in the hope of landing a juicy scoop, or going along to document a summer fête and witnessing a community, who face a myriad of struggles and setbacks, put their woes to one side to stand together.
Instead we are continuously euthanized with tawdry tales from the land of celebrity; stories that we can’t relate to. Maybe if they held an amnesty to rid their papers of this outsourced, wire copy, then they could possibly afford to pay us something other than £5 for lunch and a zone one travel card?
I feel like I’ve been unceremoniously dumped on the journalism scrap-heap – a huge, human landfill of wasted talent and enthusiasm where circulating vultures sporadically swoop for our dormant and unpublished feature ideas and follow-ups, for their devious consumption.
Yep. There’s definitely something wrong with me.
♫ Another Level – ‘Be Alone No More’
