Hello folks. It has been quite awhile since I have blogged for fun and not for class credit (Yep, that’s a thing now). You’ll be over the moon to know I have completed my one year master’s program in community journalism! Go ahead, ask me what the hell that is and what I plan to do with it. GO AHEAD!
This past year was the equivalent to soaring down a zip-line in a lush, exotic jungle. The ride seemed like it would never end until I smacked straight into exceptionally wide tree .
The seasons have changed again. Here I stand, a Young Jedi in the evolving journalism landscape, a scared minnow in the murky waters of seasoned media sharks. I am 25 with a master’s degree waiting for those dream job offers to arrive via stork to my front door. Ah, what a magical time of opportunity and adventure it is for me.
*pops delusional bubble with needle* Kidding! I’m a little groundhog gingerly crawling out of my hole into the sunlight all squinty eyed and confused. 25 with a master’s degree is that point in life where you suddenly look around and say, “Hot damn.” (or an equivalent expletive)
It’s time to get real y’all. With myself. With you. With the world.
Questions about my future can no longer be ignored as my future is…well, i think my future has arrived and it’s laughing at the face I’m making.
SO. What’s a girl paralyzed by choice to do? I’m Dorothy with twisted versions of the yellow brick road in front of me. They are all seemingly enticing yet equally convoluted. I am a writer. *pounds chest* That means______
General Reporting? Copywriting? Communicating? Blogging? Magazine-ing? Community newspapering? Getting paid to travel to far corners of the earth and eat delicious things and write about their many layers and textures and intricacies? Bazinga. Seriously. That’s the goal.
I am beginning to wrap my cranium around this odd concept of being a “freelance writer.” The word “freelancer” sound like a wild rebel type with a face tattoo or your stereotypical shaggy haired surfer.
“What are you up to these days?” “I’m just freelancing, dude!”
Well that’s what I’m doing. But with a little more deliberateness than the name implies. Trying to cobble together work. The exhausting life of an aspiring journalist whose home base consists of a comfy bed and bookshelf of role models. I’m just tracking people down so I can write about them and hopefully give an articulate voice to their stories. Learning new things every moment. 17 computer tabs open at all times. Trusting that permanence will creep into my life soon and I will no longer rely on being a networking charity case. Trying not to cry or anything ridiculously dramatic because let’s be real. I’ve got a good life.
Most importantly, I’m keeping a smile on my face and remembering that the universe knows where this mushroom headed gal will fit perfectly. According to my mother, I need to continually feed my positive dog. Yep. True life.
Man, things got really inspirational there for a minute. Anyone need a speech writer? Sermon writer? firstname.lastname@example.org
I’ll figure out my place. Even if it doesn’t happen until I’m old and wrinkly and sipping a mint julep on a rocking chair, laughing at the world beyond my front porch. I’ll figure it out. Man, I hope I’ll have a rocking chair. Maybe a nice fold-out. The important thing in the scenario is that I will have a julep.
Stay tuned as usual! I think I just heard the soft thump of a stork at my door.