The real reason I quit journalism school
Last week, I started enjoying writing–a lot. I would say I have been invigorated and have a new sense of purpose. I wrote for and edited my high school newspaper, and started out at the University of Missouri-Columbia (one of the top journalism schools at the time) as a journalism major. My dream was to become a reporter for Rolling Stone. That was all I ever thought about. I had accolades and awards from high school, and was well on my way to realizing my dreams. Then my dreams came to a screeching halt.
J-school was fiercely competitive at Mizzou. In the first few months I came to the horrid realization that I don’t like to talk to or interview people I don’t know. Not only that, my body seemed to be conveying that reality to me quite forcefully. The first few assignments where I had to (gulp) interview people, I found I had various physical maladies prior to calling or contacting the person. In a best-case scenario, I had profusely sweaty armpits, but quite often gastro-intestinal complications would rear their ugly head. This presented quite the conundrum for my previously enthusiastic self. Could I/should I continue my whole life in an occupation that my body seemed so violently resistant to? The answer was no, and I changed my major to the ever practical field of Anthropology, from which I have derived my fortune (kidding).
So last week when I dusted off my long forgotten writing skills (I use the term “skills” loosely) and found that the posts came quickly and easily I became prematurely cocky. I marched into Comicon with my newfound confidence and my little note pad and sense of entitlement. For a moment (just a moment), I forgot why I changed my major. I thought I might have made a huge mistake all those years ago. I marched right up to the “Elite Comics” booth and found the first person with a badge on (it was a volunteer). Then I proceeded to literally almost shit my pants.
Much like I think you see your life flash before your eyes when you lay upon your deathbed, I saw my failed journalism career flash before my eyes. The anxiety, the stomach aches, the hand wringing—it all came back in one terrifying rush. I sulked about for the rest of the convention, recognizing this puts up a rather formidable obstacle to my blogging.
However, the beauty of blogging is that technically I don’t have to actually ever physically speak to people. I am a misanthrope, and that’s the reason I believe I have found this medium. It’s perfect. That’s why God created AIM, Twitter and Email. For people like me.
Posted by Shannon
many are the woes of the maroon-faced girlz.
There are still occasional days when I think I want to be a journalist. But I know better. What I really want to be is a writer, and the people I make up myself are far more tolerable than the ones I had to interview.