The Journalist
A college grad struggling to break into the writing field.
Six-hundred words. I just received my first assignment as a freelance writer. A local daily newspaper contacted me with an offer to write a short human interest article. Human interest? I have no interest in human interest, what do I care about a pie baking contest or some do-gooder saving a mutt from euthanasia at the local dog pound. Look, it's simple, I have a type-A personality with aspirations of becoming a high pressure reporter digging for the dirt on any politician. Type-A and human interest do not mix. My idea of human interest is crucifying a politician. Conservative, moderate or liberal, you attach the word politician to your name and to me you've hung a target on your back. Human interest, to soft, to, small-townish, not exactly what I had expected when I graduated from college.
This is it, freelance work, the best I could do after graduation. Granted, I didn't lead my class in journalistic excellence nor was I the next Walter Winchell, but really, freelance. My college career consisted of a major in journalism and a minor in partying. The major was a passion and the minor was a much-needed diversion. As a child, books and the written word were always my interest. Coming from a working class family, dad, a beer drinking, sports fanatic worked in construction and mom, a devoted mother, encouraged me in any direction I chose. Through my early years I was content to sit with a book and explore a library on Saturday's. On the other hand, dad expected me to join the little league and any other sport that was in season. My mother, relegated to the sidelines would try to reason with him to let me live my life. Follow my interest. Dad finally relented to the fact that I was not interested in sports nor making a living working in construction. A short lived truce was declared, at least through my tender years.
Entering high school dad's hopes once again were revitalized, high school football, basketball and a letter-man jacket, the never ending hope of a devoted father. The truce broken, the proverbial line in the sand was drawn, and mom was the designated mediator. My freshmen year came and went, no sports, my personal home library was growing but dad still held out hope, three more years of high school. Gift giving was a war of personalities in my family. They both would make a personal claim to me, dad, a football, a baseball mitt and even a .22 rifle. Dad was digging in deep. On the softer side, a gentle smile and the gift of a typewriter and mom won me over. Following dad on the occasional fishing trips, a local hometown ball game and a Friday night at the bowling alley always kept him hopeful of me joining his team. As my high school years past and college was on the horizon the truce was once again ended. College football, yes, what better than to have a son in a bowl game, dad's inflated hopes for my college career. My intentions, succeeding as a journalism major and becoming a published writer, my inflated hope. Dad didn't seem to understand that a one-hundred and fifty pounder does not make a good football player.
Two years lost between high school and college for the reasons of money, I fell into one of dads traps, his never-ending quest to lure me into his idea of a man's world. After looking at several colleges that taught journalism with healthy price tags, a community college became more palatable. Ever morning dad and I would head off to work, father and son. The smile that dad gave mom as we walked out of the door was more of an I win than a have a nice day. With two years of back breaking labor behind me and a healthy saving's account I set out for my first year of college, chalk up a win for mom and me.
Every summer dad's hopes would rise when I had to find work to pay for college expenses. A son in construction, what more could a father hope for, at least my dad. Following dad to work every morning my thoughts turned to, why. Why would anyone want to do this for a lifetime. He seemed blissfully happy lugging shingles up a ladder for a roof or nailing together 2X4 framing for a wall. Even the occasional smashed thumb from a missed hammer blow would not deter him, it would all be taken in stride. By the end of the day, slightly slumped and moving slower he would still muster a smile and ask me if I'd care to stop for a cold one. My first thought to his invitation was where could he find the energy for a beer after working in the sun all day. Why not, getting my sore hands around a cold glass of beer and sitting in an air conditioned bar sounded good to me. If nothing else this would be the incentive to buckle down at school and leave the parties for those whose career choices meant very little after graduation.
One Friday night the usual stop at the local corner pub ran a little longer than expected and dad and I threw back more than our usual limit. Looking at me with slightly limited perception, dad ask me why. My return, why what? Why not give up this notion of being a writer and join me in the construction field, join the union, you and I working together, it would be great. Besides, you're bound to make a lot more money, writing, working for a newspaper or magazine can't pay as good as the construction field. Trying to slay this dragon with a genteel touch was not going to be easy. This question was put to me before, many times, and I managed to dance around it, but finally the place and the condition I was in I felt I had to bring this to an end. Looking at him, I noticed he was becoming blurry, to me anyway, my answer was as simply and tactful as my condition would allow. You and I are wired differently, my immediate and short answer. You like the more active world and I would rather write about it, that's the long and short of it, that's all. Other than that I see a lot of similarities between us. Yea, dad looks at me with a crooked smile, we both love your mother. You are right pops, a slap on the back and lets go home dad this place is getting to familiar was my only response.
Graduation day came and went, diploma in hand I headed out to become the editor in chief, an inflated fantasy of course my head in the clouds. I strolled in the office of a big city newspaper, resume in hand and a three piece suit expecting them to roll out the red carpet. Usually I would get a pleasant smile from the receptionist and be told to leave my resume and they would get back to me in a few day's. Okay, you don't usually catch a fish on the first cast so I would try again, a different pond this time. Weeks turned into months and no prospects. Dad turned up the heat on the construction career and mom became my pillar of strength and hope. Four years of hard work, two failed relationships with women I was sure that I wanted to share the rest of my life with and summers in the company of beer swilling hammer jockeys, I was not going to throw the towel in quite yet. The first summer after graduation and time was running out, in dads eyes, he was moving in for the kill. For whatever reason he had set an imaginary time limit, a reporter or a carpenter by the end of the summer. Since I was still living at home I had no choice, a three month time limit to find work. Finally after two and a half months a nibble on my line.
Freelance. Not what I had imagined but it will get me on the road to writing and maybe with a lot of luck, my own place, out from under dad's critical nature. I had something to cling to and justify four years of college, and to keep from swinging a hammer, not much but something. The assignment completed, turned over to the editor, I was sure I was on the fast track to full-time work. No word from the editor and more heat at home. More job interviews, a few free-lance assignments and nothing substantial, nothing to say that I was a self supporting writer. Mom, my keeper of faith and dad standing by with a critical out look. Finally one Friday night dad invited me to bowling and a beer after work. In my present state of mind I accepted gladly.
After a hard fought game of bowling in which I was thoroughly trounced dad and I moved to the bar, his treat. At the bar the first round was served and dad settled in for what I knew what was coming, the father/son talk. As he enlightened me with his years of wisdom I knew he was right. Keep following my dream but in the mean time find gainful employment. A hint at the construction field was dropped in my lap. Not wanting to admit defeat but knowing that he was right I succumb to his suggestions. The metaphorical truce was sealed with the clink of two beer glasses, on one side of the table the hard scrabble and on the other the artist at heart had come to an agreement, peace once again reigned at home and the mediator of the family, the matriarch, could finally rest.
This is it, freelance work, the best I could do after graduation. Granted, I didn't lead my class in journalistic excellence nor was I the next Walter Winchell, but really, freelance. My college career consisted of a major in journalism and a minor in partying. The major was a passion and the minor was a much-needed diversion. As a child, books and the written word were always my interest. Coming from a working class family, dad, a beer drinking, sports fanatic worked in construction and mom, a devoted mother, encouraged me in any direction I chose. Through my early years I was content to sit with a book and explore a library on Saturday's. On the other hand, dad expected me to join the little league and any other sport that was in season. My mother, relegated to the sidelines would try to reason with him to let me live my life. Follow my interest. Dad finally relented to the fact that I was not interested in sports nor making a living working in construction. A short lived truce was declared, at least through my tender years.
Entering high school dad's hopes once again were revitalized, high school football, basketball and a letter-man jacket, the never ending hope of a devoted father. The truce broken, the proverbial line in the sand was drawn, and mom was the designated mediator. My freshmen year came and went, no sports, my personal home library was growing but dad still held out hope, three more years of high school. Gift giving was a war of personalities in my family. They both would make a personal claim to me, dad, a football, a baseball mitt and even a .22 rifle. Dad was digging in deep. On the softer side, a gentle smile and the gift of a typewriter and mom won me over. Following dad on the occasional fishing trips, a local hometown ball game and a Friday night at the bowling alley always kept him hopeful of me joining his team. As my high school years past and college was on the horizon the truce was once again ended. College football, yes, what better than to have a son in a bowl game, dad's inflated hopes for my college career. My intentions, succeeding as a journalism major and becoming a published writer, my inflated hope. Dad didn't seem to understand that a one-hundred and fifty pounder does not make a good football player.
Two years lost between high school and college for the reasons of money, I fell into one of dads traps, his never-ending quest to lure me into his idea of a man's world. After looking at several colleges that taught journalism with healthy price tags, a community college became more palatable. Ever morning dad and I would head off to work, father and son. The smile that dad gave mom as we walked out of the door was more of an I win than a have a nice day. With two years of back breaking labor behind me and a healthy saving's account I set out for my first year of college, chalk up a win for mom and me.
Every summer dad's hopes would rise when I had to find work to pay for college expenses. A son in construction, what more could a father hope for, at least my dad. Following dad to work every morning my thoughts turned to, why. Why would anyone want to do this for a lifetime. He seemed blissfully happy lugging shingles up a ladder for a roof or nailing together 2X4 framing for a wall. Even the occasional smashed thumb from a missed hammer blow would not deter him, it would all be taken in stride. By the end of the day, slightly slumped and moving slower he would still muster a smile and ask me if I'd care to stop for a cold one. My first thought to his invitation was where could he find the energy for a beer after working in the sun all day. Why not, getting my sore hands around a cold glass of beer and sitting in an air conditioned bar sounded good to me. If nothing else this would be the incentive to buckle down at school and leave the parties for those whose career choices meant very little after graduation.
One Friday night the usual stop at the local corner pub ran a little longer than expected and dad and I threw back more than our usual limit. Looking at me with slightly limited perception, dad ask me why. My return, why what? Why not give up this notion of being a writer and join me in the construction field, join the union, you and I working together, it would be great. Besides, you're bound to make a lot more money, writing, working for a newspaper or magazine can't pay as good as the construction field. Trying to slay this dragon with a genteel touch was not going to be easy. This question was put to me before, many times, and I managed to dance around it, but finally the place and the condition I was in I felt I had to bring this to an end. Looking at him, I noticed he was becoming blurry, to me anyway, my answer was as simply and tactful as my condition would allow. You and I are wired differently, my immediate and short answer. You like the more active world and I would rather write about it, that's the long and short of it, that's all. Other than that I see a lot of similarities between us. Yea, dad looks at me with a crooked smile, we both love your mother. You are right pops, a slap on the back and lets go home dad this place is getting to familiar was my only response.
Graduation day came and went, diploma in hand I headed out to become the editor in chief, an inflated fantasy of course my head in the clouds. I strolled in the office of a big city newspaper, resume in hand and a three piece suit expecting them to roll out the red carpet. Usually I would get a pleasant smile from the receptionist and be told to leave my resume and they would get back to me in a few day's. Okay, you don't usually catch a fish on the first cast so I would try again, a different pond this time. Weeks turned into months and no prospects. Dad turned up the heat on the construction career and mom became my pillar of strength and hope. Four years of hard work, two failed relationships with women I was sure that I wanted to share the rest of my life with and summers in the company of beer swilling hammer jockeys, I was not going to throw the towel in quite yet. The first summer after graduation and time was running out, in dads eyes, he was moving in for the kill. For whatever reason he had set an imaginary time limit, a reporter or a carpenter by the end of the summer. Since I was still living at home I had no choice, a three month time limit to find work. Finally after two and a half months a nibble on my line.
Freelance. Not what I had imagined but it will get me on the road to writing and maybe with a lot of luck, my own place, out from under dad's critical nature. I had something to cling to and justify four years of college, and to keep from swinging a hammer, not much but something. The assignment completed, turned over to the editor, I was sure I was on the fast track to full-time work. No word from the editor and more heat at home. More job interviews, a few free-lance assignments and nothing substantial, nothing to say that I was a self supporting writer. Mom, my keeper of faith and dad standing by with a critical out look. Finally one Friday night dad invited me to bowling and a beer after work. In my present state of mind I accepted gladly.
After a hard fought game of bowling in which I was thoroughly trounced dad and I moved to the bar, his treat. At the bar the first round was served and dad settled in for what I knew what was coming, the father/son talk. As he enlightened me with his years of wisdom I knew he was right. Keep following my dream but in the mean time find gainful employment. A hint at the construction field was dropped in my lap. Not wanting to admit defeat but knowing that he was right I succumb to his suggestions. The metaphorical truce was sealed with the clink of two beer glasses, on one side of the table the hard scrabble and on the other the artist at heart had come to an agreement, peace once again reigned at home and the mediator of the family, the matriarch, could finally rest.
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