Well now. It’s past 3am on a Monday morning. I haven’t slept yet but sunrise will bring nothing different which a slouching Sunday did not offer. I miss the days when Monday, the start of the week brought work, tasks to occupy ones self with. Now every day is more or less the same, give or take a few driving lessons. I am disgruntled and fidgety.
I’m waiting for someone to yell at me that the world doesn’t owe me a living just so I can throw something hefty at them.
I’ve been looking for jobs in America and Ireland, some new adventure I can escape into. Just pack up bags and go. I once saw constant restlessness in the eyes of someone I loved, and I think now I understand it. Then again my problem could be pure boredom.
I know that I am lucky that my parents are still able to house and feed me, and that if I could get a job in London I would be in prime commuter land. My circumstances seem good: my education and location qualified and desireable, but it doesn’t make a lack of focus any easier.
The words that jump of the screen at me when I stare at my latest rejection email are “Good luck with your future career in journalism.”
I don’t know how to take those words, they glare up at me. I doubt they were meant in jest, ‘yeah, like you’re ever going to get anywhere love.” They leave me feeling utterly blank.
Do I want this? Do I want a career in journalism anymore?
My dad reckoned I wasn’t tough enough to be a hack when I enrolled on my undergrad course. Being stubborn, his refusual to believe in me only fuelled the desire to be successful. I’d prove him wrong. At first I didn’t like it, I had wished I’d chosen Cinema & Photography, studied the subtlies of light and mood and character fragility. Journalism seemed so loud and brash in comparison, it wasn’t an art, it wasn’t beautiful.
And then the realisation that the beauty didn’t have to be in the story, out of the mouths of interviewees or in the plot but could be found in the framing, the holding onto of an emotive image for a second longer than really neccessary.
Storytelling became more alive for me than it had ever been. The immediacy of it was fresh, the stories were real, concerned and affected real people, there was a need for it, it was a service and now less of an ugly duckling.
With a camera in my hands, a spare tape and battery shoved in my back pockets, a piece of white paper hastily shoved up a sleeve and a pair of sensible shoes strapped onto my feet chasing after protestors and dodging policemen I felt more alive than I ever had done. It was a thrill.
In some ways I think I have the bare essentials to carve it into a career. Those not-so endearing qualities could be put to use.
I am nosey but not overtly intrusive.
I like people, actually they’re fascinating, and find it easy to get on with most.
I can talk lots but prefer to listen.
I find amusement, and can take pleasure in small things.
You can be the judge of my spelling and grammar.
I have a good, sharp eye for things and instinctively know what makes a good picture.
I have good reflexes, know when to shut up, when to complain.
I love editing and can happily shut myself away and get on with it.
Very little fondness for PR, tarted up jargon, and any information written in English but which still needs to be translated and simplified.
But there are conflicts.
I like my words, my hyperbole and waffling. Hence this blog.
I will have bouts of wanting to drown myself in nothing but fiction. But I think this is down to not working. I loved being constantly “on it” when I was busy.
Being jealous of those who’s careers would let them switch off at the end of the day.
I would wring my hands if I wasn’t typing. I just don’t know.
A few knockbacks has disheartened me yes, but is it more than that?
Some days I am so determined to do this, I wouldn’t do it if I really thought I would be no good at it, and others I am all emptyness and idleness and read books instead. I think in the end I am one of these moochly creative types. The kind that sit and write their daydreams out on paper or prop canvas up against the garden fence and paint. Or perhaps everyone does this? What should be left as merely a hobby?
Of course some will say I shouldn’t have written all this and perhaps I won’t publish it; it could cause great concern for potential employers.
I give them this as a defence.
I am a thoroughly honest person and usually bubble with excitement when emerged in a project. I would not take on work I wasn’t interested in or didn’t admire. I’m a bit of an annoying perfectionist and things must be done properly, no rash untidy jobs. Do something and do it well.
I found this draft of a blog post hidden in the murky depths of the wordpress dashboard.
There is a time in a student’s life when you know you’ve been working too hard.
That time is when you fall asleep on the bus clutching a tesco curry and only jerk awake in time to blurt an apology as you scramble off to the poor person who was silly enough to sit next to you.
HOLD THE DOOR BUS DRIVER.
No keep going driver, I’m not sure where I want to get off yet.
I think I could be a little lost, or perhaps overtired (it is now nearly 5 am) without being physically tired, too streasy with churning things round. Writing things down always helped to clear my head though.
HannARGH concerned at her concern.