What I hate about this job

I’ve always bragged about my job. That to become a journalist is a dream come true, that this profession is noble, that this is somehow high-paying, etc etc. Maybe I was just painting the wrong picture.

 

First, to be a journalist means you have to deal with people. And before you deal with people within or outside your beat, you have to face the hair-raising, traumatic, and horrifying experience inside the editorial office.

 

Editors are probably the most ruthless people in the world of media. Just so you know, I did not spend all those sleepless nights studying at the country’s premiere University just to be shouted at, cursed and reprimanded. Yes, I admit I had occasional (and ehem, minor) errors in my news stories but I believe that doesn’t warrant them from saying what I would like to call “hurt words.” Call me sensitive, call me infantile but I think I’m just human. I hurt, I bleed, I cry. If one story in a day doesn’t make much difference with six stories (or more) in a day, then I’m doomed. What do they want then?

 

You obviously can’t get an exclusive story everyday (unless you are the President of the Philippines, thank you very much.). And you can’t possibly beat all news wires with every crime or political story this over-populated country has—especially if you’re the lone reporter for a nationwide beat. If skipping meals and running in high-heels just to be able to produce a story aren’t enough, then I might as well kill myself. Haha J I know I am a slave of the most-read (ehem.hehe) news site in the country, but I need no reminding that I am. Alila na ako, huwag niyo na akong apihin! Haha J

 

Thank God though for the endangered (hehe), heaven-sent editors. They keep the balance. And that’s why I’m still here.

 

Rant number 2.

 

We in the media obviously don’t know what a holiday is. Holiday does ring a bell (cleng cleng!! Double pay) but I don’t think I would experience what 8-5 workers have (read: rest). And I’ve been missing too much with this no-holiday scheme. While my family and friends are getting busy filling their bellies with yuletide food, I was at the beat trying to figure out if any crime occurred on Christmas day.

 

And my day-offs (yes, day-offs) have not been spared. For six months in a row, the weekend desk editor never failed to cut short an anniversary date, or a movie date, or a sweet weekend getaway. I think my blackberry already had a thousand (seriously!) registered calls since I acquired it June last year. Only when I had the courage to cancel the calls and to remind the editor that it was a Saturday or a Sunday that the weekend calls stopped. But those calls did not really cease.

 

On weekends like Julia Campbell’s autopsy and during the election week, among others, I had no choice but to drag my boyfriend or my mom or my friends to a coverage. They enjoyed it but I don’t think they would if it happened all the time.

 

Rant number 3.

 

Cruel sources, insecure police officials and rude politicians will always haunt a journalist’s career. They will either scare you, tease you, at times hurl green jokes (which I hate most. Thank god I don’t own a gun—yet.) And like editors, you have to deal with them most of the time. It’s a good thing though that there are people professional enough to make you stay in the game. Else, if everyone is a monster, then I’d have to say bye-bye.

 

With all these (and more) I don’t know why I’m still here. And why I still want to be here. And why I would rather die here.

 

Tsktsk. Addiction na ata ‘to.