What I wish I knew before becoming a journalist

By Sunil Saxena

I wish someone had told me what it is to be a journalist before I took the plunge.

I had just turned 21 then, and of all the careers available to me, journalism seemed the most beckoning.

It could help me realise my dream, which was to become a bestselling author.

My parents did not share my passion and tried their best to dissuade me.

They had a reason. Journalism was amongst the lowest paid professions in India at that time. Its ranks were populated by two kinds of people.

The first were the passionate ones, the ones who had stars in their eyes and who dreamed to change the world with their writings. They were limited in number.

The second were those who ended up in journalism because they could not get any other job. They were the bitter ones, full of angst and frustration. In the 1970s, they formed the bulk of the profession.

I belonged to the first category. But like all dreamers, my dreams were not rooted in reality.

My father tried desperately to make me see reason. There were great careers awaiting me, he told me again and again. Why do I want to throw away the opportunities available to me and join a profession where there was no money, no respect and no future?

But I was obsessed. I would cite the examples of Ernest Hemingway, Rudyard Kipling, George Orwell and Charles Dickens amongst others. All of them had started off as journalists, before turning into wordsmiths and master storytellers.

My father was not convinced. He would tell me that these were the exceptions, not the norm. My relatives were equally aghast. Everyone begged me, beseeched me, tried to show me reason.

I wish I had listened.

I did not. I went ahead and joined a local newspaper. The salary was a pittance, but I pushed gamely on. The initial months were heady, and I had little to regret.

But then reality started sinking in. I realised that journalism was only a craft. It was not taking me any closer to my goal.

Since I was part of the news desk, my job was to edit copy, free it of grammatical and factual errors, write headlines and make newspaper pages. This was back-breaking work, a far cry from what I had imagined.

I had not come into journalism to dot the I’s and cross the T’s. I was also very frustrated by the long and unearthly working hours. I hated the night shift, which began at 7 pm and ended at 1 am.

Frustration would eat into me. Why was I awake at one in the morning when the world was sleeping?

I envied the reporters who were out in the field, meeting famous people, visiting crime scenes and spinning stories.

They were the real journalists, I thought, not people like me who toiled thanklessly on the news desk.

Once again, I was off the mark. I realised this when I became a reporter. My job was to report on civic issues and crimes. More than that, the news reports had to be written in the inverted pyramid format, in which the most important point came first, and the less important ones followed in descending order of importance.

It was a news writing structure that had its origins in the nineteenth century, but which everyone followed in the twentieth century also.

Where was the creativity, I wondered? As a journalist, I was reporting what others were saying or doing. Yes, there were some very satisfying human interest and investigative stories I did. But these were few and far between.

Fortunately for me, things started changing in the 1980s. Two major newspapers were launched in the city where I worked. Nationally, there was a burst of activity. Journalism suddenly became a coveted profession. There were more opportunities, more respect, and salaries that could match, even outdo, other professions.

I rode the wave and rose high in the profession. I am sure my father would have been very proud of what I achieved.

But what about me? I may have become a successful journalist, but I did not become a bestselling author — the primary reason I got into journalism.

I am now convinced that journalism is nothing more than a craft. It can be taught in a classroom or, with some pain, learnt on the job.

As against this, creativity is something that comes from within. It comes naturally to individuals. It bubbles from inside and cannot be taught in a classroom.

Yes, several universities have creative writing courses. You can do them and get a degree in creative writing. But it will not make you an author.

However, my dream is far from over. I hope that in the remaining years of my life I may still produce a bestseller.

This article was first published on Medium.com.

Read also:
Digital Dementia: The hidden dangers of screen time