Getting a Job, Part 2

In reference to my last post, perhaps all this will change very soon. I should hear back from a number of positions any day now, but I’ve learned to temper my expectations. In order to explain my fury over the easy acceptance of unpaid positions, perhaps a little background information is necessary.

Long story short: I originally applied to journalism schools four years ago; I got into some and got wait-listed at others. I decided not to go, and instead pursed my masters and a career in education. When I realized that what I really wanted to do was write, not teach (something, in retrospect, I knew all along) I still didn’t think wholehearted pursing words on a page was a good idea. I went abroad  to try a different form of education rather than chase after the elusive identity of writer. (Yes, the word needs the flourish of italics to capture all the connotations it carries.) Besides, what did a 25 year old have to say about the world anyway?

Now, at almost 29, I’m still not sure I have much to say. However, I am sure I’ve made choices that in theory elicit the insight and integrity about writing that I crave. For me, this has always been the real appeal of writing and art: to articulate something about oneself or the world that cannot be communicated directly. To work a lot of shit out in your head so a singular voice laden with meaning and power resonates on the page, canvass or screen. To think, and come to your own conclusions. To create and inspire.

I’m not suggesting that I am such a writer , but would like to think I’ve made choices that in some oblique way reflect a desire to make my life closer to my aspirations. I guess I wanted to distinguish myself, not through skills but through thought. I now wonder if I didn’t peruse a career in journalism at the outset because I knew I’d one day find myself in this very spot: having done all the ‘right’ things only to discover I’m all wrong.

I’m not really sure why I thought that gaining insight and understanding would make me a better journalist than learning how to make an audio slideshow and tweet about it. I’m not sure why I cared so much about writing hearty, meat-and-potato features when expedient soundbytes go down like silky champagne. Why would I think my interior world and the writing it inspires would be more attractive than a flashy resume and mad digital media skillz? (yes, skillz)

So I guess I’m going to have to work smarter. Wrap myself in a more marketable package.  I’m going to start auditing a Saturday video course to bolster my tech skills. It’s about time I learn something about business and real estate. I guess the topics I’ve chosen to write about -  public housing, prison, obscure artists and musicians, eating disorders, death – are not the most palatable. Perhaps I can compile a list of the top ten websites for fill-in-the-blank and make it big as an aggregator. Now that’s journalism.

Perhaps I don’t have a job not because I’ve done anything wrong. Perhaps it is simply me, or rather, all that I lack.