Things That Keep me Awake at Night

Contemplation in an NYC diner, pen in hand.

In the past few weeks, I have found myself contemplating my future more than ever. This is partly due to the fact that I’m looking to apply to about four graduate schools come December and January. My anxiety doesn’t stem from the fact that I doubt my abilities, it stems from the idea that others could possible doubt my abilities. Graduate school professors, perhaps? Or the team of people that review applications. Or even publications I might try to pitch ideas to. The problem is a couple of things. First, the world of print journalism has been dying a slow death for the past couple of years. Although I firmly do not believe that big institutions of news, like The New York Times or USA Today will go away, because broadcast and new media rely so heavily on them as the gatekeepers of news, it will be horribly impossible to be considered for any editorial type job there for the writers and editors of my generation.

As any recent grad in the journalism field knows, it is so difficult to find an entry-level job, let alone one that is willing to pay you a decent wage. Once I applied for an editorial assistant position that paid $14. Fourteen dollars. That’s one dollar more than I was making in the last year of the customer associate job I had during college. Only one dollar more. I see countless listings on Craig’s List for reporters and writers, but many of them are not only volunteer-based, but pay anywhere from $10 to $12. I mean, really?

But, let’s face it, no one becomes a journalist for the money, except for the delusional students who somehow think majoring in journalism is going to launch them into the helmet hair, salmon colored suit hell of broadcasting for a local network. I became a journalist because I’m passionate, and really, that is the number one thing that this field responds to: passion. If you don’t have it, you’re better of going to Business school or enrolling in another program. The trouble is, at first, you’re not going to make much money, in fact, if you’re not good, you won’t ever make good money at all. Second, you’re going to be possible met with criticism from the public. News flash: Journalists are not liked. I once read a poll conducted not too long ago that ranked journalists in the same league as user car salesmen on issues about honesty and trust.

I can’t believe I read this week that the Los Angeles Times is cutting another 75 editorial jobs. Who do they expect to run the paper? Advertisers? What is in the future for print-lovers like me who want to make our careers in journalism? When I toured the Los Angeles Times office when I was a sophomore in high school, I was so overcome by emotion. Yes, I was a big dork, but that’s besides the point. The point was, I knew that where I belonged, ultimately, was in a newsroom. Most of you are thinking, wow what a loony, of all places, why would anyone want to be there? Let me tell you, when news breaks, the best place you could be is in a newsroom. The thrill, the rush, the excitement, the messy desks, the editors and writers whizzing past one another, the televisions on, the radio on standby, web pages open on the army of computers. Transport me to a newsroom any day, and I’ll get right to work. You won’t even have to ask.

This is the stuff I live for. The stuff I’m passionate about, the stuff that has the power to induce compassion, incite anger, change minds and expose the truth. During the day, I plot ways that I can replace Erica Hill on Anderson Cooper 360, pitch a story to the New York Times and be taken seriously, even though I’m relatively young. Erica Hill is 32. Thirty two! That means I have about eight years plotting time to come up with a plan to be on air with the silver fox known as Anderson Cooper. On my way to work, I try to think up the questions the reporters on NPR might ask, before they actually ask them. If you’re not a fan of radio news, I suggest that you don’t step foot in my car, because that’s mostly all I listen to on my long drives from and to work.

My Saturday mornings are spent with my mother on the kitchen table trying to solve the crossword puzzles on the last page of every issue of New York Magazine. People, I have the Society of Professional Journalists “Code of Ethics” pinned on my wall at work and “Beyond the Inverted Pyramid” by The Missouri Group on my desk. I reference the Associated Press Stylebook almost daily.

In short, I love journalism. Someone get me a bumper sticker: I <3 Journalism. Yes, I love it. I hope to succeed in it. I hope to leave a mark on the world. I hope to be recognized for my craft. I hope that years from now, journalists can be looked at on the same level as doctors and artists and other prestigious professions. I hope that when  a high school students declares a desire to become a journalist or writer, his or her parents don’t try to persuade them in the pursuit of something reliable and realistic such as business, or something that will make bring in the money, but make you lose your soul in the process.

I hope that I can be among the Ida Tarbells and Christiane Amanpours and the Ernest Hemingways of the world.