I texted my friend Kim(bo slice) Bellamy the other day (who is also a reporter) and asked her to please remind me why we had chosen a career in journalism because honestly I can't remember sometimes.
I spent most of last Friday chasing stories, literally. I ran out our door on Main Street after seeing 2 ambulances and 3 fire trucks fly down the road. I grabbed my editor's camera (because they still haven't gotten me one), my notebook, pen, and keys and hit the road. After flying down the street following the sound of sirens and the flashing of lights I found the cause of all the hu-la-bu-lu... a tiny wreck where one car had pulled out in front of another. I took a picture, talked to the cop, and drove back to the office (3 minutes). Then I went to the local middle school to take pictures of the principal dressed up like Santa and ask kids what they wanted for Christmas.
My younger, ambitious self would be kicking me in the butt right now.
I dreamed about covering glamorous stories and taking pictures of beautiful homes, talking about their character and how their owners turned them into masterpieces from real estate nightmares. I wanted to work somewhere that I got to dress in the latest fashions everyday and still be able to afford to pay the mortgage.
Instead... I became a small-town reporter. I cover board meetings, chase ambulances hoping something really horrible happened so I can make a story out of it, and make people angry because I said some girl was there grandaughter when it is actually their step-grandaughter... my bad.
I swear I am not usually this negative. I just CANNOT believe where I am.
I do want to stay around home because I can't imagine raising children anywhere else and I love Edgecombe County but I am getting incredibly burned out churning out 6 stories a week for a weekly paper. The job hunt continues and I know you've gotta start somewhere.