Friday 14 November 2008

The Carrie Bradshaw Myth


Carrie Bradshaw (hallowed be thy name) has a lot to answer for.

The image of her sitting in front of her Apple Mac in a characteristically fabulous ensemble, puffing on a cigarette as she types a few words and then pauses for a sip of her Cosmo or a dab of lip-gloss, is printed indelibly on my brain.

It is my belief that Sex & the City has perpetuated a seductive and, sadly, wholly unobtainable myth about journalism.

Carrie is allegedly a columnist for the New York Star, a weekly tabloid paper. I say allegedly, because we never really see her doing any journalistic work. Instead she swans around New York in her designer garms in a flurry of bars, clubs, restaurants, cafes, shops and sequins. I haven't even factored in the time she spends between the sheets!

Yes, there are occasional, token shots of her tapping away at the keyboard but judging by these, and taking into account the sheer amount of time she spends discussing penises (both literal and metaphorical) with her gaggle of gals, Carrie’s work productivity rate must average at about fifteen sentences a month. And that’s when Big is out of town.

Now, according to one guide to journalism rates of pay, produced by the NUJ, http://www.londonfreelance.org/rates/w1000new.html, a writer in Carrie's position could earn around £500-£600 per feature - but that's based on 1000 words and I'm guessing Carrie doesn't get that many words in her little tabloid column. So that means earnings of less than £500 per week.

Yet Carrie can somehow afford to pay for her Manhattan apartment, eat (and drink) out all the time and feed her Manolo Blahnik addiction, shoes which, according to my research, can cost anything from $555 to $14,000 (£374 - a whopping £9438.00) PER PAIR! My maths has always been a little dodgy but it's clear even to me that these figures just don’t add up.

And the worst thing is that the industry itself perpetuates this myth. Whenever I get all Carrie Bradshaw-esque (and I have seen and heard others doing the same thing, citing her as an inspiration for entering journalism) I take a swift reality check.

But look at this advertisement for a job application I saw recently:

Do you see yourself as the next Carrie Bradshaw with a career in journalism? Is fashion your passion and going out something you love to discuss? Let us help you take that first step up the ladder.

Sadly, despite my efforts at becoming the next Carrie, the ladder's first step proved highly elusive (I am suppressing the obvious and bad Manolo joke that comes to mind here).

So, potential employers, stop lying to us - you can't turn us into Carrie or give us her fabulous life. And fellow journalists, stop lying to yourselves too! Journalism is hard graft, often monotonous and highly unlikely to lead to a Manhattan apartment or a wardrobe full of designer garms.

But, every now and then, you may get to use and abuse your press credentials to worm your way into swanky press events (particularly if X-Box are hosting the event), you will meet a bevvy of interesting characters (maybe even some good-looking eligibles) and you will have a lot of fun along the way. I'll raise a Cosmo to that, Big or no Big.

Thursday 13 November 2008

Hacks and Hollywood


It dawned upon me today that being a graduate journalist is like being a struggling actor.

Though the two industries seem poles apart (one is glamorous, potentially astronomically well-paid, based on fantasy, the other is slightly scruffy, with teeny tiny wages and, ideally at least, based on reality) they actually share some common ground.

Firstly, as a freelancer, just like an actor, you have to become accustomed to rejection. I had my first taste of this today, after trying to sell an interview to the Observer Woman. I had spoken to the assistant editor over the phone and she sounded keen, asking me to email some more details about the article across to her. It all seemed positive. I duly did as told and shortly received a reply which said simply: "Thanks for this, but I don't think it'll work for us." Crushing. I felt like I had delivered my lines badly, or forgotten my script before the judging panel.

As my second point of comparison, from what I hear, everyone in LA is trying to be a film star. When you buy a cappuccino, coffee, pizza or glass of wine, the chances are that the person who serves you is one of these wannabes. In London, when you go for a meal or tarry out to quaff booze in some darkened bar, chances are that the person who serves you is a wannabe journalist.

At the magazine where I'm currently slaving away for free, I am surrounded by people in the same poverty-struck situation as myself, all of whom have second and even third jobs as waitresses to keep them afloat. As a fellow 'work-experience' girl said to me today: "Yeah it's hard having to work in the bar after working here all day but journalism is what I want to do, so it's worth it." I believed her; her eyes were all ablaze with a fervour and dedication verging on religious devotion. It was then that the actress comparison struck me again, since acting is one profession about which people say, 'Only do this if you can't imagine doing anything else because it's hard, unreliable and you may not make any money.'

It seems to me that the same can be said for journalism. Despite this, just like in the acting industry, there are unrelenting hordes of devotees willing to sign away their freedom, life, salary expectations and sense of self-worth, just to get a foot in the door. A former web-editor at the magazine told me recently that she didn't know anyone who hadn't worked unpaid for about A YEAR before they were taken on as staff by a publication.

Call me a broken woman but at this point in time, I can't help wondering: why do we do it?

Tuesday 11 November 2008

Mind Your P's and Q's


I am one of those pathetic people with a compulsive need to be liked. It therefore crushes my soul when strangers commit random acts of rudeness. When this occurs (and it does, all too frequently) I spiral into a three-step emotional journey of bewilderment, hurt and rage.

Take this morning, for example. I was sitting on the bus when the girl next to me started fidgeting with her bag. Concluding that she wished to remove herself from the bus, I promptly rose to my feet and made way for her, generously flashing her a polite smile as I did so. Rather than make any eye contact, smile back, or even mutter 'thank you' in the style of well-mannered Londoners, she pushed past me with a scowl.

I sat back down feeling slightly shrunken and unsavoury and watched her figure recede as she stomped off into the chaos of Whitehall this morning. We all have bad days when we resent the close physical proximity with other commuters imposed on us by London transport but does nobody believe in manners anymore?

As I pondered upon this, I remembered my recent work experience at a popular weekly celebrity magazine. I had turned up all a-brim with bubbliness and journalistic enthusiasm, excited at the prospect of writing seedy exposes of the latest c'leb scandals.

When I arrived, I was given a thick booklet with 'Work Experience Job Description' on it, which listed tea making, distributing the post (and even opening the post, variety is the spice of life) re-filling the stationary cupboard and doing the office 'breakfast run' as my sole duties. In the first hour, I maintained a perky cheerfulness, delivering the post to each person with a little 'hello' or 'here's your post' or some other introduction, since according to my booklet; "giving out the post is a really great way of getting your face known in the office".

The problem was, despite my efforts at friendliness, nobody was even looking at my face. My face seemed to be an offensive foreign object. And my efforts at friendliness just made them more uncomfortable. Even when I lugged huge parcels from one side of the office to another for the Lifestyle team, no one offered any acknowledgment. It was if I was invisible, or at best, a slightly distasteful smell wafting across their territory. It made me wonder why people are so afraid of human contact and so suspicious of each other? Or is it just extreme laziness?

I came close to breaking-point on that first morning. I took a letter to somebody's desk, which according to my floor plan made her the rightful recipient of that post. She ignored my hello, looked at the letter and tossed it aside with a slight curl of the lip. "I'm not Juliette Readly" she snarled, without pointing me in the direction of the genuine Juliette.

As I walked off, I couldn't help muttering two expletives between clenched teeth. This was the only unmannerly outburst I allowed myself during that entire awful week. My restraint was tested throughout my time there, largely because of the general attitude of contempt displayed towards the work experience. Tasks such as the daily collection of the entire office's supply of papers and magazines (arm-destroying parcels which had to be lugged back to the 3rd floor of the office from a local newsagents) and having to pick up the editor's dinner at 6pm on a Friday evening also made me want to unleash some rudery but I somehow managed to keep a grip on decorum.

Taking positive action instead of taking a gun into the office, I called a talk with the editorial assistant and explained that I was there to gain journalistic experience and if I couldn't do any writing at all I would have to leave. This tactic worked and I ended up writing two articles which were published on the magazine's website.

Having graduated, I'm now back working for the online team (albeit unpaid, which I grant, is quite an impediment but seems to be the way it works) and have already had about twenty stories published on the website.

Proof that manners don't just make people happy, they also help to get your foot in the door.

A mannerly way of demanding payment for my labour? I'm still working on that.

Monday 10 November 2008

Tomorrow's News, Tomorrow's Journalists


A blog forum on www.journalism.co.uk has posed the question, 'what would you do if you were given a million dollars to save journalism?'

So, if a million dollars magically came my way...

I would swiftly hand it over to my mate Chris, a mathematical genius and professional poker player. Under strict instructions not to get distracted or cocky, he would then invest the wonga in Lady Luck and make a sum of money large enough to actually make a difference to this industry.

If Chris came up trumps (which he would, he's a decent chap) and made me a substantial pot of money, I would:

a) Increase the salaries of trainees/entry level reporters working for regional newspapers as £14,000 is NOT enough for anyone who wishes to be fed, clothed and alcoholed.

b) Give money to influential publications who regularly take on interns. Rather than offering 'travel expenses' as if pulling a rabbit out of a hat, these publications could then actually pay interns for their labour, even if it's minimum wage. A little goes a long way, especially when you have mastered the art of living off a tenner a week as an impoverished student.

c) Invest in training within publications to make sure all staff are switched on to digital media and the importance of blogs and the online community.

d) Set up mentoring programmes so that experienced and established journalists can offer advice, support and even training to young graduates and students.

Ok so there is a slight bias emerging here in terms of helping those at the bottom of the food chain such as myself but we are the future of journalism and are therefore highly deserving!

With any remaining money I would buy myself a mac laptop since a recent job application I filled in cited ownership of one as a vital job requirement.

There is a pleasing symmetry to this injustice: I have no laptop, so can't get the job...I have no job, so can't get the laptop. Catch 22, journalism stylee!

Signing on to a bleak future?


"So what job do you want to do love?" asked Bev, my 'personal advisor' at the JobCentre Plus, peering at me through her tortoiseshell spectacles.
"I want to be a journalist."
"Yes dear, but I need three types of work to put on the form."
"Erm, put editorial assistant, reporter and sub-editor then."
Bev took her spectacles off and scowled at me.
"We need three types of work because that way They think it's more likely you will get a job. If you don't put three down, you might not get your job seekers allowance."

I scowled back. Fresh from noSWeat journalism college, all a-fire with a single-hearted desire to make it as a hack, Bev just didn't seem to be getting me. Having survived a year of working in healthcare PR, a job so dire I could feel little slices of my soul evaporating day by day, I was not prepared to switch career allegiances.

Bev cleared her throat and attempted a kind smile.
"Look dearie, all the journalists are in here at the moment. We've had people from the Sun, the Daily Mirror, they are all signing on love. There aren't any jobs in journalism at the moment."

I crumpled a little and looked around at the fellow no-hopers sitting patiently on the suprisingly dashing red sofas. It dawned upon me that the whole building was full of deliberately bright colours - vivid purples, lime greens and vomit orange. I suppose it would be dangerous to sit the down-and-outs on grey furniture, it would probably be the last straw and cause us no-hopers to slash our throats with the plastic folder of our claims booklet.

I sighed and looked back at Bev.
"I worked in healthcare PR" I offered, glumly. "I suppose you can put me down for that."
Result! Bev smiled and tapped away on her keyboard.
I left the JobCentre Plus a broken woman. If highly employable journos from the nationals were queuing up alongside me to claim the weekly 60 quid dole money, what chance did a wannabe hack like me have?

In my hands, I clutched two print-outs from the odd little machines inside the centre. I looked forward to sharing my new career prospects with my parents: 'Chimney Cleaner' and 'Dog Boarder'. Whilst I printed the former just because it made me laugh, I was actually quite optimistic about my prospects as a dog nanny. Whoever knew you could earn £50-£100 a week, just for letting a furry four-legged friend share your home? I could be onto something here.