Today, someone at work asked me about an accident I've been unsuccessful at obtaining information about from the police department. It happened last Thursday and I called several times last week and again this week (on deadline) but to no avail. Instead of worrying about it, I concentrated on the other stories I was finishing up for tomorrow's paper. But when I was unable to provide information to my curious co-worker, she said, "Fine, I'll call [the daily newspaper reporter] to find out."
I was flummoxed. I had a pretty good idea that the accident wasn't a fatal (the police would have issued a press release if that was the case), so I don't see what the big deal is. There are countless accidents in town on a daily basis — many that look worse than they actually are — and we don't cover every single incident. However, the fact that she would cast me aside so quickly and run to my competition for information stung me a little more than I would like to admit.
Say what you want about me — that I'm overly sensitive or over-emotional — but these are the attributes I possess that I feel make me a good writer. Not a great writer, certainly, but a good one. These are also the attributes that have prevented me from developing the "thick skin" journalists need in order to survive in this industry. I take it personally whenever anyone slights my paper or criticizes my writing. That said I should also admit I let it go to my head whenever the paper receives a commendation (however rare that may be).
Whenever I go anywhere with my friends in the towns I cover (and sometimes even surrounding towns) I'm introduced as "Jen from the Journal." One of my friends refers to me as "Jen Paper" and another calls me simply, "Journal Jen." I write a weekly column about my perspective on life in the community and with that column (aptly titled Journaling with Jen), my photo also runs. It’s obvious that my paper is my life and my life is my paper. I can't help it. I don't know any other way to exist. I'd be lost without my job.
The cracks in my emotional veneer are starting to show, though, and I don’t know how to stop them from getting bigger. Lately, I’ve received countless positive e-mails about different pieces I’ve written, and I’m thankful for every one, but whenever anyone criticizes me in even the slightest way, it’s all I can do to keep from bursting into tears and running home to hide under the covers. Strangers have the capacity to render me virtually incoherent with grief simply by uttering a few negative words.
I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately as I contemplate my future. I don’t know where I want to go from here. I can’t say for certain that I want to continue on as a newspaper reporter, however much I may enjoy it now. The job itself is fun (if you ignore the constantly pressing deadlines and the having to deal with idiots), but I need to have a purpose in life and having fun doesn’t really fit in with my lofty life goals.
Note: I’m not talking career ambitions, here. After four years of performing the same menial tasks and several (failed) attempts at advancement, I’ve decided to let go of many of my professional goals…at least for the time being. But therein lies the rub. If I don’t know how to be anyone other than Jen from the Journal, if I don’t know how to exist outside of my job, how can I ever move on from it?
I heard somewhere recently that the problem with being a deep thinker is it leaves you vulnerable to the existential crisis. I can’t help but feeling that that’s what I’m experiencing now. Who am I and where am I going? And more importantly, how am I going to get there when I’m stuck here…in a rut?
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