So, I’ve been missing in action for about a month, and over the past few weeks there have been a few developments.
Part way through September, after a couple of trips to London and back, I ended up winging my way to London to begin another internship. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I was excited, but I had high hopes. I was more than aware that I wasn’t sure if this was what I wanted – I knew that it would be so much easier to get a basic job, earn some money, and then consider taking on the world of journalism at another point in time. I knew that it would be so much easier to stay signed on, find a job, find a flat and build a home in my comfort zone of the North East of England.
As it happens, the internship didn’t work out for me. For reasons personal and financial, and the fact that I had my handbag cleaned out at the end of my first week in London, I decided to call it a day with the internship. This was a huge decision for me, I’m not a quitter, and I don’t take quitting lightly. I played the violin for 6 years, even though I was diabolical at it, because I didn’t want to be a quitter. But I made that decision and I decided to take some time out in London to assess where I was at.
So I did, and as much as I wanted to stay in London and continue assessing where I was, I returned to my home comforts. And if that sounds like I think I’ve made the wrong decision, I don’t. I know that there are people who think I’ve made the wrong decision, and I made it for the wrong reasons, but it was a difficult heart/heart decision I had to make, and I chose to come home. But my second week in London enabled me to reflect on three years of university, and a few months of trying hard to find a job in the field I was educated in, and I suddenly found myself back wondering if journalism is for me.
I love to write. Really love to write. I consider myself much more eloquent on paper than in speech, and I love the way it feels to assign a word to a feeling, or a sentence to an event. I always have done, and if I’m honest with myself I’ve always known that I wanted to be a writer. But just now, I’m not sure that journalism is the way to go. I’ve started to realise that I’m probably more of a creative writer than a journalist. Someone who writes, wrapped up in a duvet in the middle of winter, getting to know the characters being created. Getting wrapped up in the lives of the fiction unfolding, and deciding the fates of the fictional characters in my life.
So here it is – the plan now is to find a job, earn some money, buy some new clothes, but above all to write. Every single day. I want to write about everything, about a person I saw that day, or something I heard, or a character I’ve created, or a feeling I had, anything. I don’t know where I want to be in my life, but I know this. I want to write. I want to write novels.
Edit: I forgot to mention, I wrote to our local MP William Hague regarding the fact that those doing unpaid internships get no financial support from the government – this was a big part of the reason I had to leave my internship. My letter has been forwarded to the Secretary of State for Work and Pensions. Hopefully this will have some impact, if not for my benefit, for the benefit of the thousands and thousands of others who are facing the situation I’ve faced.