172 job applications. 11 months and 21 days.
This is the blog post I’ve been dreading. As long as I kept searching for jobs and peddling my earnest stories, I could put this post off. As long as I kept trying I wouldn’t have to admit defeat.
But almost a year later I’ve finally decided to stop. No more late nights spent on Mediabistro, Ed2010 and JournalismJobs. No more editing and then re-editing my cover letter and resume. No more emails that go unanswered. No more rejections. I’ve spent the past seven years working toward becoming a journalist. I got pretty close too, what with the internships and all the writing I did in college. But all that was just a warm-up for what came next. Unfortunately for me nothing ever came next.
When I started this job search a year ago, I thought it would be fun to keep track. After a few months it wasn't much fun.
A couple of months ago I decided to give myself a deadline. I thrive on deadlines. It’s one of the reasons I like journalism. May 15, 2011: a year after a graduation. (What can I say, I’m a sucker for poetic moments.) However, a couple of weeks ago I realized something: whether I make it to May 15 or May 6, nothing is going to change. I never expected the journalism forces to collide come the 15th and send me a job offer from above. So I cut my deadline a bit early. After 172 job applications, you tend to feel a bit disheartened and are ready for the whole terrible process to finish. Why drag this out 11 more days?
Right now I have a vague idea of what’s next. I’m leaning toward grad school, but I don’t want to say where or for what because then it will never happen. I thought I’d feel sad or disappointed, but in reality I’ve had a year to feel like shit. I’ve had a year to question my writing, my talent, everything. I thought I’d worry what people would think when I told them I was giving up on journalism. But then I realized something: No one else matters. I can keep applying for jobs and hoping that one day my life will start, or I can start living my life.
I want out of my parents’ house and out of part-time jobs that require me to wear a uniform. I want to unpack the dozens of boxes that are starting to sag under the weight of other boxes. I want to a dog and my own mailing address and bills to pay. I want to become an adult.
I’ll always be a writer. I’ll never lose that. But it would be absurd to think writing is all I’m capable of doing. I’m too much of a realist for that. Journalism and I had a good run, but if this year taught me anything, sometimes things–for reasons unknown–just don’t work out. It sucks and it hurts and at times I’ve cried until snot ran down my face and my pillow was soaked. And then I got up and pulled myself together. That’s all any of us can do.
In my memoir this chapter will be called: Brittany’s dreams fall apart. The next chapter will be called: What happens when Brittany finds a new dream.
