Kerouac-like lines

Yesterday was my first day as a real, paid journalist (not counting last summer's paid internship in San Antonio), and I have to say, it was rather uneventful. As I don't have a login ID yet, I couldn't access a computer, and as such, spent the day wasting time and trying to reach as much actual print as possible. I know, it's crazy to think that a modern-day journalist didn't actually stare at a screen for eight hours. It was nice just to be able to take in the newsroom and its operation before being thrown to the wolves.

Fast-forward to today, when I had some assignments and ended the day feeling like a complete failure. Seemingly simple things (two 8" briefs) took me about three and a half hours to write. Along the way, I realized a few things:

* I am rusty, and I mean RUSTY. A cooper fork left on a Seattle home's front porch is probably in better shape than my writing. My sentence structure was awkward, I was having hella trouble trying to find the flow of the story, and I'm not going to even mention my leads. I tried channeling John Kupetz and his mighty green pen for the afternoon, but it didn't get me very far.

* I am easily distracted. I remember when I first started writing for the Daily that my Devo editor Sheila recommended all of us Devo writers to come into the newsroom to write our stories. I recall finding it hard to concentrate with all the buzz going on around me. Today, I felt like that old 18-yr-old Marcy on the Norris 3rd floor, trying desperately to drown out the sounds of police scanners, reporters buzzing about arrested teachers and editors coming and going from their meeting to re-arrange Page 1. It was hard to get used to then, I hope this time around it's not.

* I have very little recollection of AP Style. In fact, I had to go out to Barnes and Noble this afternoon and buy a new stylebook, because I have absolutely no idea where my old one is. It's quite sad, really, I had little notes in the old one and highlights. Not to mention all the sentimental attachments I had to it. Same with my missing dictionary.

* NAHJ's mission to diversify newsrooms is extremely important. In my newsroom, I am the minority. Not only am I one of five females in the newsroom (including editors, designers and copy editors) but I am also the youngest reporter. And, of course, the only non-white person in the entire newsroom. Granted, it's small (about 25-30 people) but I still had that feeling of "awkward" when you go somewhere and realize you kind of stick out like a sore thumb. Everyone is extremely nice and helpful, and in no way has this been an issue or even discussed, but I feel it on a personal level. And it's yet another thing for me to get used to.

I know I have quite a huge learning curve ahead of me, and I'm starting to doubt whether or not I can handle this. Not to say that I think I'll sink -- I know I can keep myself afloat. But I'm starting to wonder how many fuckups the paper's willing to take before they can someone.

Job hunting = tears for sure

So I have spent the better part of the past three hours online, looking at potential jobs (while I'm working at the moment, my current job has nothing to do with my expensive degree and is quite dull. Plus, it means I wake up at the ass-crack of dawn four days out of the week, which I am SOOO not about).

Undergoing this long, exhaustive search has made me realize a few things, which in turn have made me feel rather depressed:

1. I have no real work experience, and as such, nothing to offer. My internships at newspapers are great experience for a newspaper job, but since my options are extremely limited there, that experience ends up being good for nearly nothing.

2. My degree was a big waste. What did I spent four years and over $100,000 on when I can't find a job related to what I want to do? Or find a job where at least I put that degree and all that damn money to use?

3. I am totally fucked. I watched "Julie & Julia" last night, and there was a point in the film where Julie, the modern character, realizes she's turning 30 and never became the writer she aspired to be. In fact, she hadn't really done anything, and was working as (basically) a telemarketer for the government. I realized that I don't want to turn into that person at all -- I don't want to wake up in seven years and realize that I'm still working the same job that has nothing to do with what I desire to do. It's quickly becoming my biggest fear and each day I feel as though I'm getting closer and closer to that nightmare.

I know I'm being melodramatic and that things will work out, and that in spite of everything, I should be thankful that I at least have a job, regardless of what it is. But it's really easier said than done to sit back and tell myself that everything will be fine when I just feel like hyperventilating and freaking out -- night after night.