It still seems strange to me that people work, unpaid, without a guaranteed job at the end. And I haven’t reconciled myself with the central irony here: that journalism, ostensibly a populist endeavour, is becoming a rarefied practice best suited, both financially and psychologically, to the well-off.
Alexandra Kimball’s tale of struggling to make it as a journalist — but more specifically, a writer — alludes to relatable hurdles such as making rent and being unable to work free internships, which lowered my chances of landing a job after the days of restaurant work in college.
However, her Random House feature talks about journalism as a “glamour” industry.
I don’t think my two-hour drive to an assignment, after which I end up eating alone in a dive bar, wishing I could nap for just five minutes before driving home to my fourth-floor apartment in a building with the broken elevator, where cat litter overpowers all other smells, is very glamorous.