i met a journalist today. he was kind of scruffy looking, a little worn around the edges, but had this crazy sense of confidence and an wicked sense of humour. he didn’t dress like someone with cash to spare, but when i asked him, he told me that he loved what he did, and that sealed the deal for me.
i remember that week in year 10 when i decided i wanted to become a journalist. it was raining all fucking week, and i followed the photographers and writers of a local newspaper around to different places, stepping in puddles and freezing to death the whole time.
it was a good week.
unlike all my friends who opted to go to work experience at a magazine, or at fashion places (which led them to a week of cutting swing tags), i went out on a limb and decided to join up at a newspaper.
it was very exciting, the unpredictable hours, the chase of a story and the golddigger who was marrying her fiance while he was in his hospital bed.
the biggest problem is that, well, journalists are poor. if i continue to do my commerce degree for the next four years i’ll graduate and make about 50,000 per year. it gets better.
when i graduate from my media degree i’ll make a bit of poverty, some freelance work, alternating weeks of starvation… you get the picture. i’ll literally have to sleep with someone to get somewhere.
i’m high maintenence.
still trying to figure out if it’s worth it.