My last post sounded cryptic, I know, but recent revelations needed some time to soak in the crevices of my life before I could type them out.

The gist of it, in the most simplest of terms, is that I quit my job. In media. In a bad economy. Please cue the firing squad.

For three years, I worked as an editor for  a new media site, copy editing, fact-checking and manhandling a bevy of freelance writers. Some of my proudest work appeared in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution and a few Hearst newspapers.

After hours, I freelanced for local and national publications, adding 20 hours to a 40 hour work week. Then, I decided that it wasn’t enough. Along came 20 more hours of sweat and tears put into my own publication.

And so I went along, with my days bleeding into each other, until that funny little thing that all journalists possess took over me: intrepidity.

The fear of no work and therefore no money in a bad market was gone. The need for stability disappeared. Everything I had known for years, from high school to college, to this job, became clear: I am a journalist. I live and breathe headlines and nut graphs and slideshows. Nothing excites me more than a good article. I am at my  happiest when I’m chasing a story. I am journalism and journalism is me, for better or for worse.

So, I handed my notice, left my salary and a truly amazing group of people to venture into the unknown, where the ratio of journalists to jobs is shocking. May the force be with me, I know.

Here I am, in a knitted bobble hat and sweats, sipping on Iranian tea (Sadaf, if you’re curious) in my KCRW mug, on my first official day without a salary. I turned in a story, starting work on another and gave my dog a bath, but mostly, I outlined on a piece of paper I stole from the printer my POA, or plan of action, if you will. Story ideas, trips abroad, grants, fellowships, you name it, I’ve written it down. Much of the page is taken up my outlets I want (need, must) write for, including the Guardian, Global Post, EurasiaNet, California Watch and the Los Angeles Times (hello, is it me you’re looking for? yes, yes it is.)

Why did I do this?

Because I still believe.

I believe in journalism. I believe in it maybe to a fault. When you believe, nothing else seems to matter.

I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, in a month or a year from now, but I do know this: I am going to give this industry everything I’ve got, because it can’t be removed from my core. And if you love something enough that it fills your core, pursue, pursue, pursue. The hard work has to pay off. It just has to. Fear and courage run on a thinly veiled line, so choose wisely.

2011 is going to be an adventure filled with pitches, bylines, self-discovery, love, highs, lows, travel and the pursuit of happiness. I leave you with this quote:

Don’t ask yourself what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you come alive. And then go and do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive – Howard Thurman

Love, The Human Journalist, newly minted enterprise, investigative and international reporter.

Hello.

Journalists (well, most of them anyway) tend to shy away from any type of self-exposure, including myself. It’s about the STORY, not about YOU – that’s what we’ve been told over and over again by journalism professors and editors and publishers, and rightfully so. It’s not about us, it’s about those we report on.

So you can understand the hesitation and anxiousness I felt when I decided to post the above photo of (gasp!) myself, but I’ve grown tired of feeling that way.

I have been wondering what to make of this blog ever since I started writing in it. I’ve written about baking bowling ball cakes and print newspaper consumption in Europe and my love of  kitsch, not fit for consumption movies like “Love is All There Is,” and why I hate and love Los Angeles all at the same time.

I’ve described how I must be the only person on the face of the Earth who can’t have a blood test because of impossible to find veins and how I wanted to crawl into a hole and die when I found my first white hair and documented Henry the Maltese’s entire knee surgery (the one section of my site I get the most emails about).

I’ve agonized over the very thing all young writers agonize about – having a career doing what they love and at the same time felt like all my journalism dreams were coming true.

I have complained, whined, explained how beautifully baking calms me down, highlighted some of the articles I’ve worked on over the last year and also probably talked a lot of crap.

I’ve done all this while wondering – what the hell am I writing about?

I always feel like I’m all over the place when I write here, which I guess is an accurate reflection of my life at the moment.

I want everything at once. And as such, I want to write about everything at once. And that’s why if you browse through the posts on these pages, you’ll find everything from pumpkin muffins to musings on the 2008 presidential election and recaps of Bollywood films.

For a very long time, I’ve wrestled with what to write here – the self-loathing and criticism that comes with being a writer is no exaggeration, believe me. I have stared at so many blank posts, only to write a few lines and delete the entire thing. I wasn’t wasting any paper, but it still felt like a waste.

And so, I was driving (more like standing still) on the traffic infested freeways of Los Angeles when it finally occurred to me what this blog was and should be about: The Human Journalist.

You might be thinking,  huh? what exactly is a journalist if not human? Well, according to this UK poll, being a journalist was recently regarded as the third most untrustworthy profession – so to some, I’m sure “journalist” is synonymous with Beelzebub.

Many people tend to think of journalists as soul-less leeching creatures who are always on the chase for their next story, no matter what the cost. And while I haven’t run across this too often in my career, there are times when I’ve felt the deep-seeded hate.

Today was one of those days.

I called a source to fact-check a few paragraphs of information and within the first few seconds of speaking to him, I knew he was going to lash out at me.

“Is that how you people operate?” he said to me in a condescending tone. “Is that how you work?”

Uncalled for kind sir, uncalled for.

A few months ago I was on a phone with a woman, trying to explain that I was in search of some information for a story and she cut me off and started explaining that the way I had approached her on the phone was all wrong.

“Don’t they teach you how to properly talk in journalism school?”

She went on and on, belittling me, refusing to answer questions, but I carried on and finally got what I needed out of her, while dreaming of ramming the phone all the way through the line and up  her nose and then going across the street to the bar to get a shot of tequila and cry. And I don’t even drink.

I guess what I’m trying to say, in the most roundabout way, is that my entire life I’ve been trying to find the central part of what ties all the other parts of me together. It would be easy and almost lazy,and not even  entirely true to say  that it’s my ethnicity that’s at the core of my being. Being Armenian is a huge part of who I am, but it would be unfair to say that it is the one thing that completely effects all other areas of my life.

But what does effect and infects its tentacles into all parts of my being, is journalism. It has always been my core, the one thing that I remained certain about above all others, throughout adolescence and high school and college and ‘the real world.’

It makes me feel alive.

And so in an effort to finally unify this blog under one concept, put a soul behind the third most untrustworthy profession and use this truly as a comfortable space to not only express my ideas, and half-ideas, but to connect with others, I’m now The Human Journalist. I write, I bake, I dream about seeing my byline in the L.A. Times and NY Times, I love kitsch, awesomely bad movies that would make any film critic lose respect for me. I love Los Angeles, but I’m not afraid to say I hate it too. I want to write about the problems this sprawling landscape has, and meet some amazing people in the process. I want to craft words together for my stories as beautifully as my grandmother strings together the thinnest of yarns for the winter cardigans she makes.  I want journalists to be respected and acknowledged and not underpaid. I want to write feature stories that have the potential to make someone stop and think, “Huh. That was interesting.” I want to see all the hard work I put into an investigative story and say – I really made some kind of dent in the world.  I want to be able to make other people feel the way I feel when I read stories from my favorite writers.

I want to feel (virtually) alive. And I want to bake some amazing desserts to reward myself with.

So here I go. This is an experiment into the human side of a journalist – about her wants and dreams, about her likes and dislikes, some of which have nothing to do with journalism at all and about discovering herself on this torturous yet rewarding path that only a crazy person would purposefully choose.

This is place where I’ll probably do a lot of what I was doing before, but without any fear or anxiety – and for a writer, to write without either the former or the latter is complete and utter peace.

I am intrepid, see me write. And of course, welcome.

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.