July 30, five days time, will be a year to the day that I had my last shift as a journalist.
A year ago today I was in a profession that I loved, or at least convinced everyone and their grandmother that I did. A career I was born to do, that made my insides ache for a scoop and go all butterfly-y with every byline. A career I happily committed extra hours to without extra pay. A year ago today I was telling myself that redundancy is a good thing - that greater things are coming my way, that the world is gaining something truly wonderful much to the loss of my former employer. I also told myself that despite witnessing the sheer ruthlessness of the industry, journalism is still the best job out there and that if I truly wanted it then I should not give it up.
Hindsight is a wonderful thing and (almost) one year on, I am beginning to accept that journalism is in my past and that my future deserves to be with something more stable and secure.
Join me on a trip down memory lane. January 2008 I accepted a job of trainee reporter for a local rag in Derby. There I worked on five titles, sat beside my partner-in-crime Amy who I was on the same course at uni, met Gok Wan (hi-five to the BBCs!), 'interviewed' Robbie Savage at my first and only football press conference and in general had an awesome time. Four months later the company shut us down. I relocated to Long Eaton where I met my other partner-in-crime Shelley and once again had a pretty awesome time writing all kinds of stories that meant something to someone. Four months later, like clockwork, the company shut us down. I then moved to Loughborough where if it were not for the fantastic news team and editor, I would have seriously quit. There was banter, there was fun, there was camaraderie. Plus there was Amy = REUNION! Four months later, no bad news. I would be lying if I said I was not expecting some announcement. Another two months had passed and still... nothing. Hmm maybe I survived this one. How wrong was I. The news came nine months into the new role - May. This time rather than closure the Echo had to reduce its news team by 50%.
Admittedly looking back when I heard the news I was relieved. It sounds defeatist but after being moved around twice and watching eight titles close, I could not bear yet another relocation. I no longer trusted the company and was more than ready to move onto pastures new. Working extra hours, trying to prove myself against the more talented and experienced writers, facing the wrath of the editor after disappointing him yet again, all the while preparing myself, waiting for the bad news to come certainly took a lot of joy out of the job. I was exhausted trying to convince myself each day that this is still what I wanted to do after telling everyone since I was 15 that journalism is my destiny. So when in early July my editor told me that I was one of the four to be made redundant, I was relieved. No tears, no anger, no disappointment - just sheer relief. Finally I can escape and move on to bigger and better things. Someone told me that when one door closes, a million windows open. One colleague wrote in my leaving card that he predicted wonderful things for me.
Skip forward to today and I am still waiting for the million window openings and the wonderful things to happen. I am living back home, amazingly on less money than I was before and doing a job that does not reflect my potential one bit. On top of that I have received countless job rejections. The only thing keeping me sane are all these weddings. Like I said hindsight is a beautiful thing.
I've realised that if I were still living in Derby, paying rent it would be impossible to afford Las Vegas, Amsterdam, Vancouver, New York, train fare up and down the country plus wedding presents, dresses, hotel costs etc etc etc. Moving back home not paying rent as such has been a blessing in disguise. If my parents knew the exact total I have spent so far, I would be responsible for them going into cardiac arrest. I buy a dress between £80 and £100? I lie and tell them it's £50. With my current job I can just tell my boss that I need certain days off and she will grant me them because I am just a temp. For the sake of witnessing people's I Dos, redundancy has been the blessing in disguise.
But then comes the nights where I can't sleep because it is just too suffocating to admit that journalism may have given up on me (and believe me such nights are becoming more frequent). A lot of people know me as the ambitious, power career driven woman who has boasted to anyone who cared how great her job was. So what if the days were stressful, that I spent 10 minutes eating my lunch at my desk and stayed at council meetings until 8pm? So what if someone at Tescos was on more money than me? I found a job that I truly loved and was prepared to stick with it for the long term. I lasted less than two years.
For me personally, journalism is like a bad boyfriend that I just can't keep away from. (A tad dramatic?) It screwed me over not once, not twice but three times and even then I vowed to remain faithful to it. Despite many people telling/ advising me to get out and look for something else, the sad thing is that despite my relief in having escaped the former company, I know of no other job that will give me the same level of satisfaction, passion and love. I went to Auschwitz, my stories were read by thousands every week, and not forgetting having made some amazing friends. But realistically I could not and still cannot ignore the fear, the lack of trust and just generally waiting to be disappointed yet again. All the makings of a bad relationship.
My friends once said that I was married to my job. That I neglected my personal life because I was chasing Seniority and spent more time with a notepad and laptop than just living my 20s. My cousin today asked me: "Does it not make you feel really sad that five of your friends are getting married and you're still their single guest?" I'm 23. What could I have possibly missed out on so far? Possibly...
Hindsight is indeed a beautiful thing. I have decided to close the door on journalism and look for something else. One year on, I have had no news, not even a small sign. I have absolutely no idea what to do or where to go but I'm going to take it one day at a time. Maybe the answer will come to me as I walk past the Anne Frank museum in Amsterdam, watching the sun rise over the Grand Canyon or breathing in the Manhattan skyline on the Brooklyn Bridge at night (all things guaranteed to happen). Or maybe some editor will contact me this week with a job offer (no guarantee whatsoever).
Maybe my next career should be one that requires less hours from me allowing me to focus on me, my personal life for once. Something tells me I have more luck in getting back into journalism than securing a date with Joe Bloggs. Hold press, maybe that's it. My new career should be me working on how to swallow pride, hide away the (apparent) intimidation and open my eyes to what's in front of me. Now that's one career that guarantees a lifetime tenure.
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