What does a being a journalist, mean to me? #PJS

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Once upon a Journalist…

I’ve decided to start my opening statement to this philosophical journal as a fairy tale, because on my first semester of Journalism, that’s exactly what it seems like, a very far,far away dream.

Three years ago I was walking through Wollongong Campus making friends, sharing creativity and exploring what knowledge I was capable of pursuing. Today I am stressing over good photographs, blogging, politics and media coverage. Did I make the right move transitioning from Creative Arts for a better career and end up resenting my choice?

Don’t get me wrong, my passion for literature hasn’t changed. I want to further study this language I grew to be fascinated with, but I want to do that through text studies, real text, text I can touch and smell, I love the smell of old books, and the confronting silence of a library. I am so tired of typing and sliding and touching all these different types of technology that in the end don’t contain half of the profound meaning that Othello did, the romance between irony, realism and indirect speech that Jane Austen one taught me.  Call me old fashioned and cliché but I like being able to read a book written decades ago and smile upon such a beautifully constructed sentence that managed to live on till this day. I almost feel like the art of exploring the content of which our language is capable of, is lost in translation in between auto-correct and touch screen devices.

I understand I must embrace these changes but I feel the more I dedicate to writing virtual blogs and tweets I will forget how to really think and concentrate on the meaning behind these simple words, I will forget how to pick up a pen and the smell of old, dusted paper. I will soon forget the silence of the library and instead I will begin to listen out for clicks, slides and sides of stories I am not even comfortable writing. I want to write something that goes beyond the words on my pages, not a sad manipulated version of the truth, which is often what we come to read these days.

I was hoping that journalism was going to help me to better capture the little miracles that happen every day in ordinary lives and make them extra ordinary for the world to see. Tell stories of people who feel invisible and show the world that they matter too, and show the world just how powerful words can be, but how can that be, if even to me, right now, they are losing meaning.

I know this is a very early critical analysis of a course I have not done for long, but I guess I expected more Paulo Coelho and less Rupert Murdoch.

The world is changing and reshaping itself, and I must allow those changes to take place in me as a writer also, but I hope, like its done to many before me, that it does not transform my love for journalism into a search for money and publicity.

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