The written word, and more specifically journalism, has always held great intrigue for me, but I am beginning to feel that I have chosen the wrong profession to aspire to. In September I will turn up at university with my collected works of Shakespeare other various tomes by the authors of the past millenium who are thought worth remembering, and spend three years of my life in the festering quagmire of words and criticism that is a degree in English Literature. And for what? Looking at the letters page in today's papers, it seems like every English graduate from Oxford to Aberdeen has left university and found themselves applying for the lowest of journalism posts with 500 other graduates desperate for work - and invariably, they've either failed or only managed to find unpaid internships. Now don't get me wrong, I definitely didn't want to become a journalist for the money, but somehow it's a future that is becoming less and less appealing as readership of newspapers with any intellectual integrity falls year on year (and yes, I am a snob in this respect having met the editor of a certain bile-filled red-top and found that he truly believes that the readers of his rag have the mental capacity of rocks). Junk journalism is like junk food - it's the easy alternative, and addictive. The sleaziness of the world of journalism, the hypocritical culture of double-think - "Buy our paper! But we're better people than you!" - is a surely a sign that something is wrong.
Why can't we return to the journalism of old? Roving reporters, ranks of telephones, exciting, chaotic newsrooms. I could bypass my worries about the future and morality of the world of journalism today by simply becoming a photographer, in the vein of Vicki Vale...
My own box camera, superhero boyfriend, fiery red perm and mint green suit wouldn't go amiss either.
No comments:
Post a Comment