My Fix

Chapter One

"After further consideration, we just do not feel as though your writing style is not what we are looking for. We appreciate your efforts but must respectfully decline your application for now. Again, we thank you for your time and would love to hear back from you in the future once you have more experience in the field–"

I slam my laptop screen down, getting a lot of looks, mostly glares, from the other patrons at the coffee shop I've holed myself in every day for the past month. Normally I would be more considerate of the people around me, but after taking rejection after rejection in a graceful manner, I've decided to let myself be a giant baby for just one minute. "More experience in the field," what the fuck does that mean? I'm 23 years old, when did they expect me to start fieldwork? When I was fresh out of the womb? Sorry, let me just cut my own umbilical cord and head straight to college for journalism. Sighing loudly, not caring about the other people in the cafe, I shut my eyes and ran my hands down my face. I have a hard shell, I've been told since I could talk that I am hard-headed and resilient, but for the first time in what feels like forever, nothing sounds better than packing up my stuff, going home, crawling into my bed and letting the dam holding back my salty tears break, releasing a never-ending tsunami of tears that have accumulated from constant stress, rejection, and honestly, pure defeat. 

After keeping my eyes closed for a minute and letting my breathing return to a normal pace, I open my eyes, straighten my posture, and open up my laptop because as much as I want to give up right now, even for just the night, that isn't what I do. I will not let myself do that. I reopen my laptop because as much as I want to throw it across the room and march out into the rainy streets of New York, that isn't who I am. I'm stubborn. Resilient.

It's a gray, rainy afternoon in New York City and I am currently regretting every choice I've ever made leading up to this very moment. The weather is honestly a perfect representation of how I feel right now, I feel like I'm in some coming-of-age film. Journalism is not what I thought it would be, if I knew I would spend the majority of my time being disappointed, by others, but worst of all, myself, I– well I don't know what I would've done, which is one of the worst parts of this all. No matter how frustrating or disappointing entering the world of journalism has been, there is nothing else I can picture myself doing. Some people want to save lives, some want to make scientific breakthroughs, others want to create art, perform, and entertain, and some people just want to make enough of a living that they can be satisfied. All of these pursuits are commendable but for me, it's always been journalism. There has always been something beautiful and vital to me about recording the world around one's self and putting it all on paper in a way that observes and analyzes it as a means to share with the world.

This is exactly why I will not let myself go home and wallow, as much as I want to, because this is my dream, this has always been my dream and I'll be damned if I don't make this dream into my reality. Although this rejection stings, it's nothing new. It's not like I haven't been trying either. Despite tirelessly building my portfolio by writing blog posts about celebrity gossip, product reviews, and filler articles for various entertainment websites, none of this experience carries the weight I want it to. And as used to rejection letters as I've become accustomed to, it would be much more demoralizing to continue going down the path that I have been. Trust me, I've written more about celebrity divorces and skincare routines than I've ever wanted to in my life. 

All I've ever wanted was to write for a media mogul like The Rolling Stones or the New Yorker to tell real stories, stories that matter. Wanting was not enough, but clearly trying wasn't enough either. It doesn't matter how passionate I am, or how well-researched my pieces are, every time I have tried pitching those dream stories, the door has been slammed shut in my face. No matter how much I tried, to whatever intern was stuck reading my application, I was just another young writer in an ocean of young writers, bobbing around aimlessly and waiting for a break.