Growing up and bucking up

The last time I wrote, I’d sort of settled on the idea that I wanted to keep screwing around in my beloved, hip St. Petersburg and apply to grad school only to prolong my ability to screw around.

I said I didn’t want to apply to the small-town jobs I knew I’d be a shoe-in for because I didn’t want to spend my days covering agriculture and the kinds of city council meetings you see on Parks and Rec, and I didn’t want to spend my weekends at country bars. Or more likely — alone in my sad, small-town apartment.

Almost immediately after writing that post, I applied for a job. It’s not a particularly small town — it sits in one of the state’s largest counties — but it’s a good 45-minute drive to a decent concert venue or brewery, and another half hour or so from my friends and family. Still, I would have been stupid not to apply.

As presumptuous as it may sound, I sort of knew I’d get it. Especially after I was called in for an interview so quickly. It took a few weeks to get an offer, but I’d already started freaking out over my living situation and having visions of a miserable and lonely “small-town” life.

I was also set back a bit when I found out my dad’s cancer is not responding so well to this new drug trial and that he has to have brain surgery (which he’s having tomorrow). For a minute, I let myself think that maybe I shouldn’t be stressing myself out with this job and I should just stay close to home and spend as much time with my family as possible. The realist in me however, began seeing my dad’s condition as a reason to take the job and work toward being independently financially stable, morbid as that is. But that sort of thing should be motivation to grow up, not slack off.

After having some time to think and thoroughly stalking most of future young coworkers on social media — and seeing that they aren’t, in fact, horribly depressed and lonely — I’m doing alright. I’m even excited.

This job will be a stepping stone to other opportunities that will hopefully, eventually, land me back in the place I want to be. By putting my time into this job now, I’m setting myself up to get my dream job in my dream city in a few years. That sounds a lot better than screwing around and struggling for employment through my 20s.

Hey, I was offered a full-time reporting job just two months out of college, at a newspaper that’s only about an hour away from my friends and family. Holy shit! This is the best possible scenario! I get to start my career at 21. Who knows where I’ll be by the time most people my age figure their stuff out.


Job search < grad school < slow death

On my 55-minute commute home from my unpaid internship in Sarasota today (which I’m paying tuition for, despite graduating last month), I thought about how I should start blogging again.  Since I came home to a power outage, I suppose now is as good a time as ever to discuss my recent existential crisis as a recent college graduate with a mass comm degree from an unimpressive state school. A few minutes before starting this post I tweeted this overdramatic, if not morbid, question.

It’s a ridiculous thing to say, I know. But I’m only half joking.

Growing up and going to school in the Tampa Bay market means I’ve been completely spoiled with high quality, award-winning journalism. For most young journalists, these are the papers one aspires to write for. For me, it’s all I know.

Whereas many new grads move back to their hometowns to work at their small local newspapers before moving to a big, hip city to work at a big, hip newspaper, I’ll likely have to move away to get my first job. And not to some trendy up-and-coming town like my lovely St. Petersburg, but somewhere with pasture, farms and migrant workers. Somewhere with a one-street downtown and a city hall as big as my second-floor apartment. Somewhere people go line dancing on a Saturday night at the local watering hole and wake up for a Baptist church service in the morning. A great place to gain experience and world perspective, maybe. But not a great place to actually enjoy my life. Perhaps I’m exaggerating a tad. Cities like Brooksville have plenty to offer. But they can’t offer what I want.

I could suck it up and move to the county for a year or so. I could put in my time in a place I hate to hopefully move up to a place I love. Sure, I could do that. But I don’t think I’m going to. I graduated college in three years. I turned 21 two weeks ago. I’m educated, I’m talented, but most importantly, I’m young.

I don’t want to waste 21.

I want to be minutes away from my best friends and a half-hour from my family, who I still rely on all the time. I want the option to hear great live music any night of the week, or dip my toes in the gulf on any given day. That’s what I have here, and I’m not ready to give it up.

Not while I’m 21.

Maybe down the road, when I’m 23 or 24, and I’m sick of not having the job I went to school and worked so hard for. Maybe then I’ll decide to tough it out and move to Brooksville.

But not right now.

I’m not completely without options. Grad school for digital journalism and design is one of them, and at the moment it’s the most appealing … Though, the idea of starting classes in August makes my face hurt. But while I’m in school, I could get a graduate assistantship and build a decent rapport with local editors as a freelancer.

I could also get a job in another area of communications, such as PR or marketing, but that would probably require more internships first. And that’s not what I busted my ass in school to do.

But that idea begs another question: will a grad degree in digital journalism get me any further than I am now? Should I bother? Should I go back to school for something more practical, like marketing or (I cringe just thinking about it) … teaching?

If I want a job, the answer is yes. But if I want to write for a living — and I do — it’s no. So for now, I’m sticking with digital journalism.

I suppose I’ll still apply to those jobs in the Middle of Nowhere, Florida. Who knows? Maybe an offer letter will end up being more appealing to me than punk shows, art, craft beer and salt air.

Part of the reason I set out writing this post was to work through all these thoughts. Writing is the only way efficient way I can rationalize with my conscious – much more efficient than arguing with myself in the shower.

The power is back on now. I’m still sweaty, but I feel better. I’m going to go grab that parking ticket from my glove department and pay it so USFSP will release my transcripts and I can apply for grad school. Think this will suffice as my application essay?