I’d never really wanted to be a journalist.
Actually, that’s not quite true: it would be more accurate to say that I’d never really considered a career in journalism as something I might be capable of.
(I was right to think that, as it turns out. But I’m getting ahead of myself…)
If I had considered myself capable of Serious Journalism, of course, I’d have been all over it. Because journalism was one of the Cool Jobs — or so I thought. Journalists were clever, glamorous people, who got invited to all the best parties, and occasionally teamed up with cops to solve age-old mysteries. And I would love that; I mean, seriously, though.
I didn’t think it would love me, though, unfortunately… because although I knew I could write, I did not think I could write news. News was something only grown-ups could write; it was for the kind of people who read biographies, and understood what crypto was. I, on the other hand, read chick lit, and had spent a disturbingly large amount of my young life thinking guerrilla warfare involved actual gorillas. With guns.
(In my defense, I always thought this was very strange, and was surprised people didn’t make more of a fuss about it. Wasn’t it cruel to make gorrillas fight? Why weren’t more people talking about it?)
But anyway.
News was something only grown-ups could write; it was for the kind of people who read biographies, and understood what crypto was. I, on the other hand, read chick lit, and had spent a disturbingly large amount of my young life thinking guerrilla warfare involved actual gorillas. With guns.
Journalism, I decided, was so far out of my league that it wasn’t even worth considering as a future career. So I didn’t consider it. Instead, I went to university, and studied English Literature, purely so I could read books for a few years while I figured out what I wanted to do with my life.
The problem with that, however, was that, once I graduated, I still didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life — other than read more books, obviously. I briefly considered publishing, for that very reason, but all of the publishing jobs I found were based in London, and it didn’t take long for me to realise there was no way I could afford to live there on an editorial assistant salary. Especially considering that I wasn’t willing to inconvenience myself in any way at all for it.
So I kept on looking for a job closer to home, only to discover that there really wasn’t much that was a good fit for my … er … skills. Mostly because I didn’t actually have any skills.
“You’re good at writing,” said my mum, who was blatantly worried I was going to end up living with her forever. “Maybe you should look into journalism?”
“You’re good at writing,” said my mum… “Maybe you should look into journalism?”
“I don’t have any journalism experience,” I pointed out — not unreasonably. “I can’t do shorthand. Also, I’m too shy to be able to talk to people easily, and I don’t even like news. Remember the gorillas?”
“Maybe you should try doing work experience on a newspaper?” suggested my mum, who really wanted to turn my old bedroom into a guest room. “Isn’t that how people get into these things?”
It was. But I really didn’t want to do work experience; honestly, I didn’t want to work AT ALL, let alone for free. But I was all out of options at this point, and there were two local newspapers in the area at the time, so I contacted them both, offering my services as … whatever it was local newspapers might require a recent English Lit graduate to do for free … and assuming neither of them would get back to me.
Naturally, then, BOTH of them did.
The first editor to reply to my work experience request was called Eddie. He asked me to come into the office for a quick chat, just so he could get to know me a bit, and I could figure out if doing work experience there was definitely something I’d be interested in. The ‘quick chat’, however, ended up lasting about five hours, and I finally got home having spent the afternoon talking about everything from the stories Eddie was working on at the time, to which Spice Girl I’d be, if I were a Spice Girl. (Eddie thought Ginger, on account of my hair; as anyone who knows me will confirm, though, I would definitely be Posh…)
At the time, the paper was short-staffed; the chief reporter (who was also the only reporter) was on long-term sick leave, and Eddie was basically running the show single-handedly, doing everything from writing the stories to laying out the pages. This meant there was a lot of work to be picked up, and instead of essentially just shadowing a ‘real’ journalist, which is what I’d assumed work experience would involve (Well, that and making coffee. And, to be fair, I DID make myself a lot of coffee…), if I was up for it, I’d be able to start writing stories more or less immediately.
Oh, and I would get a byline on anything I wrote: which is what sold it to me, really. Because I might not have known what I wanted to do with my life, but I did know I wanted to be famous for whatever it turned out to be, and having my name in a newspaper seemed as good a place as any to start.
So I did. I started the very next week, in fact, and, sure enough, almost immediately I was writing stories, and getting, not just my name, but also my photo in the paper. Imagine!
I might not have been getting paid at this point, but the experience I was getting more than made up for it. Because there was just me and Eddie on the editorial side of things, I got to do a whole lot of stuff that it would probably have taken me years to work up to if I’d gone about things the traditional way; as well as writing up some of the simpler stories, I also accompanied Eddie to interviews and council meetings, watched him lay out the newspaper every week, and got to spend every Thursday with the staff photographer – which was how I came to find my way into so many of the photos that appeared in the paper.
It was awesome, seriously. I genuinely couldn’t believe my luck. But then, after a couple of weeks of this, a spanner was thrown into the works by the editor of the other local paper I’d written to, who also invited me to come into the office for a chat.
Mike was a very different kind of character from Eddie, and was basically everything you’ve probably imagined a newspaper editor to be. His office was small, cramped, and nicotine stained, his desk piled high with newspapers. He wasn’t able to offer me the work experience I’d asked for, he explained, looking at me over the top of a tottering pile of newsprint. But he could offer me a job. As … a typist.
“A typist?” I asked in confusion, wondering if this was some kind of joke, and how fast I could get out of here, if so.
But it was no joke.
One of the two editorial assistants, Mike explained, had developed RSI, and had to be signed off on long-term sick. (In retrospect – and also at the time, to be fair – this should’ve been a huge red flag…) They needed someone to fill in for her, two days a week; and it so happened that my letter asking for work experience had come in at around about the time all of this went down.
“It isn’t a writing job,” Mike explained, with the world-weary air of a man who’d been trying for weeks now to find someone stupid enough to take this job. “But you’d get to be in the newsroom, surrounded by journalists, which would allow you to get a ‘feel’ for it all.”
Now, I didn’t really need to ‘get a feel for’ journalism at this point, of course; because I was already getting that from my work experience with Eddie. I did, however, need money. Quite urgently, as it happened. This job would give me that; and, as this was a much larger paper, with a pool of journalists, rather than just one man doing all the work, it would give me a very different kind of experience, too.
“You can type, can’t you?” said Mike.
“Oh, yes,” I replied, confidently, crossing my fingers under the desk, and telling myself that it wasn’t a complete lie. I mean, I could type, obviously … in the same way anyone with access to a keyboard can type. I hadn’t ever been taught typing, so I wasn’t especially quick or, well, accurate, really but… I mean, how hard could it be?
<FORESHADOWING>
There was just one problem with all of this. (Well, one other problem, I mean…) I obviously couldn’t be employed by one local newspaper while doing work experience with its main rival; which meant that if I took the job, I’d have to stop working for Eddie. And I really didn’t want to, because I was learning so much, and getting to write actual stories – which was something Mike was very clear I wouldn’t be doing for him.
It was a dilemma. And it was a dilemma that was solved in a way you’re 100% going to think is made up when I tell you it, because it just sounds SO totally implausible…
Both editors agreed to let me continue working for the other.
I TOLD YOU it was going to sound insane, didn’t I?
This, however, is exactly what happened. When I told Eddie I’d been offered a job on the other newspaper, and felt I should take it, Eddie told me that, as I wouldn’t be doing any actual writing for Other Paper, and would only be there two days per week, he’d be happy to allow me to continue to do work experience with him on my days off – as long as Mike agreed to this too.
I was pretty sure there was no way in hell Mike would agree to it, but, to my absolute astonishment, he said he was fine with it … on the obvious condition, that I didn’t take anything I heard while working at his paper back to Eddie. Honestly, I think he felt a bit guilty, because he knew I wanted journalism experience, and he couldn’t offer me that … and, of course, it’s worth remembering here that this is local journalism we’re talking about: it’s not exactly cut-throat. It’s mostly about missing cats, and local planning applications, so it’s not like I was likely to steal some big ‘scoop’ or anything like that.
It was still highly unusual, though; so much so that, as I drove to Paper No. 2 a few days later to start work, I couldn’t quite believe it was happening.
Paper No. 2 was a very different enterprise than Paper No. 1. It was located in a rickety old building above a pub, which was badly in need of renovation, and always seemed to be damp, even in summer. Unlike Paper 1, whose entire editorial staff consisted of me and Eddie, there were 5 or 6 journalists, as well as an editor and sub-editor. Mike had his own tiny office, but the journos were all crowded into one room, along with the two editorial assistants — me and an older woman called Marian, who, I was told, would show me the ropes.
As well as the main news articles, this paper also had what they called a ‘Community News’ section, consisting of little bulletins which were sent in by correspondents every week. The correspondents weren’t journalists, or even writers: they were just members of the community who were … well, nosey, I guess … and the ‘news’ they sent us consisted mostly of info on when the PTA were meeting this week, and where the over 60s club were off to on their annual bus trip. It was exciting stuff, to be sure, but there was a surprising amount of it; each district in the area the paper covered had its own correspondent, and, for reasons that will soon become clear, all of their ‘news’ was sent in via either post or fax (Yes, fax…), meaning that every bit of it had to be retyped into the format used by the paper.
This was to be my job – well, mine and Marian’s – and I was to have two days per week to do it.
“Mike says you can touch type?” said Marian on my first morning on the job, leading me to two desks in a particularly bleak, windowless corner of the room, which is where we’d be working from. “That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Um, yeah, sure,” I replied, swallowing nervously. I’d told Mike I could type, not that I could touch type. I was not, after all, a typist … but I was very used to using a computer, so I’d figured it would be fine.
The thing on the desk in front of me, however, was like no computer I’d ever used before … or not since I was a kid, anyway. It looked a bit like this:
I mean, it wasn’t this. Or not exactly. I don’t actually remember what brand it was, but … it was old. And kind of strange looking, really. So much so that, at first, I thought this was some kind of prank… like, they weren’t expecting me to actually use this thing, were they?
But, yes, they were. All of the members of staff at Paper 2 used these ancient machines, and if you’re thinking, “Wow, Amber is REALLY old,” then let me tell you that:
a) Yes, I am.
but…
b) This ‘computer’ was highly unusual, even for back then.
At Paper 1, for instance, we all used reasonably up to date Apple computers; ones with email, and the internet, because, well, obviously they’d have email and the internet, right?
The computers used by Paper 2 did not have internet access. There was no email. This, of course, was why the correspondents all had to send in their news columns as hard copies… and why Marian and I had to painstakingly re-type every last word of them.
Now, I cannot stress enough how weird this set-up was to me. It was almost as if I’d gone back in time. I don’t think I’d even SEEN a fax machine in my life at that point, and yet, here was Paper 2, using fax the way most people used email.
It. Was. Bizarre.
And it got even more bizarre when I sat down at my computer, and realised the ancient keyboard I’d been given was completely blank.
As in, the keys were so worn that the letters had completely rubbed off them.
Oh.
My.
God.
If this happened to me now, I don’t think it would be a problem, because now I actually can type well enough to not have to look at the keys. Back then, though, I was fresh out of university, where I’d typed up my essays, sure, but not, you know, LIKE A PRO. As I said, I guess I could type as well as most people my age … but definitely not well enough to be able to use a completely blank keyboard.
Forced to ‘fess up that I maybe wasn’t QUITE as shit-hot at typing as I’d made myself out to be, I spent the first part of the morning writing out the alphabet on a piece of paper, then cutting out each letter and attempting to glue them to the relevant keys. They all fell off a few weeks later, but, by then I’d learned to type without them; which is one of the few good things that came from that job.
Forced to ‘fess up that I maybe wasn’t QUITE as shit-hot at typing as I’d made myself out to be, I spent the first part of the morning writing out the alphabet on a piece of paper, then cutting out each letter and attempting to glue them to the relevant keys
The rest of it, however, was … well…. imagine having to re-type a large amount of text, written by people who were not always great at writing. Now imagine doing it against the clock, while also having to re-write large sections of it, correct grammar, and generally turn it into something resembling English.
Now imagine doing all of this and not being able to make a single mistake, because it was all going to print right after you typed it, and any mistakes would be called out by ‘Angry from Bathgate’, who’d write in to the letters page to complain.
It was hell, in other words.
I hated every single second of it.
It only took a couple of days for me to figure out why the woman I was filling in for had managed to get RSI. My hands would be cramped and aching after every shift. My back hurt from being crouched over the keyboard on an uncomfortable chair – which, of course, was the only kind Paper 2 had.
Just to add to my misery, the atmosphere in the office wasn’t much fun either. Mike was nice, but also kind of scary. The sub-editor hated me. The journalists were mostly unfriendly; none of them were outright rude or hostile (And, to be fair, some were nicer than others…), but it was very obvious that they didn’t see me as one of them, and were therefore not remotely interested in getting to know me. They were all ‘proper’ journalists, who’d trained for the job, and had the qualifications to prove it; I, meanwhile, was a girl in stupid shoes, who couldn’t even do shorthand, and who was basically trying to get into journalism through the back door. It was never articulated (And might have been completely in my mind; because that’s always a possibility for me…), but I always got the sense that they looked down on me for that, and that left me feeling horribly self-conscious and … well, a bit stupid, really.
They were all ‘proper’ journalists, who’d trained for the job, and had the qualifications to prove it; I, meanwhile, was a girl in stupid shoes, who couldn’t even do shorthand, and who was basically trying to get into journalism through the back door…
Marian, meanwhile, was kind, and endlessly patient, but it was obvious that she was exasperated by my frequent mistakes and general ineptitude… and given that no one was more aware of my inadequacies than me, that wasn’t exactly a confidence boost, either.
So, I absolutely hated it; all of it.
It was only two days a week, though, and I was at least making some money from it, so I stuck at it, and, after a few weeks, Mike called me into his office. I was fully expecting to be fired, but, instead, he told me that the paper had been asked to launch a sister title: a much smaller publication, which would cover one town, rather than the entire district, like Paper 2 did.
Everyone in the office hated the idea of this, Mike told me. It was a stupid idea, which was bound to fail, and therefore, all of the journalists had refused to be involved in it. Which just left me.
It would be a shit job, Mike warned me, with one of his trademark world-weary sigh. I would essentially have to write the entire paper single-handedly. But I would be writing. I would get bylines. And the job was mine, if I wanted it.
I did want it, I decided. Not because it would be interesting, but because it would be actual, paid writing work, that I could put on my CV. So I said yes, and proceeded to become the sole writer for a weekly free newspaper focused on the town I’d grown up in.
Mike was right; it was a shit job. But I somehow managed to pull off the first couple of issues… and I’d probably have pulled off the third, too, if I hadn’t, throughout this time, been continuing to do work experience for Eddie on my days off.
I still wasn’t getting paid for this. But Eddie had always promised me that, if a job ever came up, he’d make sure I was first in line for it. And, finally, a few months after I started doing work experience with him, it happened.
Remember the journalist who was off sick when I’d started working with Eddie? She did come back … but only for a short while, before handing in her notice for good. And, just as he’d promised, as soon as the job was available, Eddie contacted head office (Who were responsible for hiring people…), and told them he wanted to offer it to me.
And he did.
I spent the next two years working as chief reporter for the West Lothian Herald & Post. It was an absolute dream of a job; the kind of thing I knew I’d never be lucky enough to ever do again. In that time, I wrote hundreds of articles, launched a book review column purely so I’d get free books (I did, and it was awesome…), was the first ever person to review Susan Boyle’s singing, and became moderately well-known in the local area, thanks to the sheer number of times my photo accompanied my various articles…
(Yes, that’s me in a football “strip” (hate that word. Why can they not just call it an “outfit”, like normal people? Why “strip”? Annoying! Also: where are my eyebrows?!) Yes, that was the front page that week. I’d say it was a slow news week, but actually, football is a pretty big deal around here, and the team in question had got through to the final of… some competition or other… so even if World War Three had broken out, this would still have made the front page. Such is the world of the local newspaper.
I, of course, wrote the accompanying story, and I managed to write it in a strangely over-dramatic style (“NO!” I hear you cry in disbelief, but yes, it’s true…) which went on for several hundred words without really mentioning football much AT ALL, but which did make much of the fact that the teams colours were “claret and amber”. And my name is “Amber”. D’you see what I did there?
I have no idea if the team won. What I do know is that it took the editor and photographer a very long time to cajole me into wearing this outfit, persuading me that it would be for “the greater good”, and finally agreeing that yes, OK, I would get the front page if I just wore the damn “strip” already. And I would also get an inside page, in which I would talk some more about my wearing of the “strip” and not mention the team. Can you tell I’m not a football fan? Because everyone who read my story certainly could…)
I even learned shorthand … well, sort of.
It was quite a time; a time I look back on now with so much gratitude, because it was completely unplanned, and unprepared for … I literally just lucked my way into a job I was totally unqualified for, and only got because Eddie was so willing to take a chance on me. And I’ll be forever grateful to him for that, because, without his encouragement and belief in me, I have no idea where I’d have ended up. Probably in the work house, or — worse — the call centre I’d worked weekends in while I was at uni.
But Eddie once told me I was the most talented young writer he’d ever come across. He told me he’d known that from the letter I’d sent in asking for work experience, and he continued to tell me I had writing talent until I almost believed it, too. He was – and is – a great friend to me, and the best boss I could have wished for.
But all good things come to an end, don’t they?
A couple of years after I’d officially joined the payroll, Eddie and I both accepted voluntary redundancy, when the group who owned our paper announced they’d be downsizing the staff and moving our office to Edinburgh – miles from the area we actually covered.
