Throughout my pre-university academic career I was never particularly professionally-minded. I spent the vast majority of my teenage years in North Devon, famous historically only for the fact that the Romans didn't even bother to go there. It remains remarkably isolated in the present day and I was happy to blithely think of my looming potential employment as neither looming nor potential. People grew up, they went to university and then they got jobs in their chosen field. Snap.
I had been fascinated with Zoology and nature in general since my early childhood living in Cyprus when my parents taught English there (years later I would read Gerald Durrell's memoir My life and other animals and be thoroughly annoyed that someone had written the book I imaged only myself capable of). In due course I applied for a degree in Zoology and chose Newcastle, almost solely on the pretext that it was the university furthest from Devon that accepted me. I mused vaguely about becoming an academic. I mused vaguely about other jobs which, in hindsight, all had cartoonish titles; 'Businessman'; 'Politician'; 'Palaeontologist' (like what is in Jurassic Park). I was, to put it bluntly, unaware that I should probably have some kind of goal, and some kind of idea about how to achieve it.
This all changed when I went to University. The first - and only - extra-curricular activity I signed up for was the university paper, The Courier. I have no real idea what motivated my haste, and I can only guess that 'Journalist' must have also been one of the Early learning Center professions knocking about in my grey matter. Within weeks, I knew it was what I wanted to do. Animals went out the window and over the next three years I was obsessive; writing every week, submitting articles to local magazines and doing a series of unpaid internships with various publications. Upon graduation I had an unrelated degree, sure, but a wealth of experience and hundreds of published articles to my name.
Let me be clear about one thing: I was not naive. I realised that my chosen field was one of the most competitive. Every year thousands of young, hopeful, talented graduates apply for a dismally small number of staff jobs. As my old Courier editor used to say, 'No one ever said it would be easy'. I also recognised that the currency of journalism was internships. Moving to London in the summer of that year -2009- when the financial crisis was still known as the (almost endearing) 'credit crunch', and slaving away in what the media was gleefully calling 'The Worst Market For Graduates, Ever' suddenly became a distinctly unappealing prospect. On the advice of a journalist friend of the family, someone of my parents' generation who, I now realise, probably didn't think of 'gap' years as having quite the slacker connotations they do now, I opted to take some time out and move to Canada.
I was there roughly a year and during my stay I wrote for local arts & culture websites, ran a blog and contributed to half a dozen other projects. My spell in Canada was followed by one in Berlin, where I was similarly involved; some friends and I set up a website for our writing, I interned at an editing company and generally, I'd like to think, always kept my eye on the journalistic prize. To succumb to a hackneyed phrase, I also gathered what I consider to be crucial life experience. I returned to the UK four months ago rejuvenated, excited by both the prospect of work and what I could contribute with, now, a full five years of writing, editing and reporting experience. I knew no one would exactly be bashing my door down to employ me, but I figured I was at least marketable.
It now becomes obvious where this piece is going. Of the countless jobs I've applied for since my return, only four have given me the courtesy to let me know I had been rejected. Not one has invited me for an interview. I am not applying above my station. All I want is an entry-level position; I would be overjoyed even if I could land one of those extended internships whose pay is, frankly, Dickensian. I do not want to be a journalist for the money; anyone who is considering entering the field in order to get rich is delusional. But I need to eat, and I need a roof over my head. In an industry that - ostensibly - prizes experience (read 'nepotism') over qualifications , all my endeavours appear, for the time being, to have been for naught.
That's not to say I'm not hopeful. The ads do keep appearing, and the opportunities to write are slowly building up. It's just that every morning, when I'm faced with 6 spam emails from 'Desperate Russian Models' and indifferent silence from all those I've contacted, I wonder a little more about what I'm going to do to survive.