Category Archives: college

I never wanted to write this blog entry, the entry every post college 20-something with a blog writes. Newsflash blogosphere: Finding a job is tough. I knew it would be, but I told myself I would be tougher. Every time another newspaper folded or another former classmate was laid off or another rejection e-mail showed up in my inbox, I told myself I would end up on the other side a stronger person (hopefully one with a job).

I’m pissed.

I complain to my friends about the hardships of finding a job. I tell my parents I can’t wait to move out. Those are just surface complaints. In reality, I want to scream or throw something to show people how frustrating this whole bitch of being an adult is. I want to blame my professors who never prepared me for the murky waters of finding a job. I want to lash out at my friends whenever another one tells me he or she found a job. I want to call every publication I’ve applied at and tell them to check their fucking e-mails.

But all those things are childish. And I can’t grow up if I do childish things like that. So instead I scour more job sites and send more resumes and do my best to keep the desperation out of my e-mails to potential employers.

Critics will say I don’t have a right to complain because I’ve only been out of school for a month. Tell that to the 32 applications I’ve sent out. I don’t care if it’s a recent college grad or a journalism veteran who just lost his job of 20 years; no one likes this process. It’s draining both physically and mentally, and it brings up all your insecurities. Am I a good writer? Am I not what they’re looking for? What if no one hires me? What if I can’t take photos and design pages and write stories on deadline? What if I never move out of my parents’ house? What if I’m not good enough?

The only silver lining in this self-loathing process is the job postings. I can’t help but laugh when I see headings on MediaBistro and JournalismJobs like “enterprising reporter needed” or “tireless reporter” or “hard charging reporter.” I want to shout at all these potential employers: Hey I’m all those things! And even better, I come cheap. Like real cheap. Like would move to New York for $15,000 a year and share an apartment with three roommates cheap. Oh and desperate. Would cover city hall in Winnemucca, Nevada desperate. Did you hear that Dallas (Oregon not Texas), and San Andreas, (also known as that town from Grand Theft Auto) California? I’m cheap and desperate! I’m every struggling newspaper’s wet dream.

And as much as that last paragraph sounds like the words from a raving banshee, it’s true. I would take any of those jobs. I’m a writer. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. There is no plan B.

But … (because there’s always a but)

What do you do when your dream backfires and you have no plan B to fall back on? I’m 21 and I’m fretting about things like having a steady job, getting health insurance and establishing a 401 K. It’s a wonder I don’t have kidney stones. But as amusing as it sounds, it’s also scary. People with real jobs are struggling and I’m just one person in a million who wants to be a writer. There’s that nagging bit again: What if I’m not good enough?

“Maybe all of us will end up with pony essays.” It sounds completely crazy out of context, but when Carrie Mulligan said this in “An Education” I found myself nodding in agreement. When it comes down to it — whether “it” be the end of the world or a mid-life crisis or just a really bad day — what will matter? It won’t be the money we made or the boss we impressed. “It” will be our dream. And all that will matter is whether or not we accomplished it.

It’s been one month since graduation. But what if in five more months I’m still living at home checking journalismjobs.com every five minutes and updating my LinkedIn profile every ten? Optimists will tell me not to think like that, but fuck them. I’m a journalist. I’m cynical and a realist at best. I think about the future constantly. Not thinking about the future doesn’t make you an optimist; it makes you a moron.

I’ve spent eight years working toward my dream of being a writer. Am I willing to spend eight more years fighting for it?

Maybe we’ll all end up with pony essays. In my case pony essays mean any occupation other than writer. I can’t even imagine it. I didn’t come up with a plan B. Maybe there is a bit of optimism in me after all.