The worth of my words...

Several years ago when I was in college studying Pre-Veterinary Medicine my father suggested that I would be a very good journalist. Our relationship had grown tumultuous by that time and I shot back at him that he didn't know me very well if that was his opinion. What about my personality, I countered, could possibly suggest I would be good at such a profession?! His list of traits in response included that I was outspoken, inquisitive-to-the-point-of-downright-nosy, extraordinarily driven, and had the ability, as a fortune cookie reinforced, "to distinguish the significant from the mundane".

Interesting that a journalist is exactly what I've turned out to be, at least for the moment. Just how long that moment will last is the subject of much of my insecurity and doubt lately.

I have been working for six years now to try to become a better reporter, and while I recognize that this process can take decades, I am at present trying to decide if I have what it takes to dedicate myself fully to this field. That effort will require many more long hard years of personal and financial sacrifice, not to mention a gnawing fear that looking back in 50 years I might not feel like it was worth that.

I've always thought that Americans value their right to the free press which provides the invaluable services of informing them about their world and holding power accountable, to name a couple among many. I'm sure you can imagine that it is difficult to see and hear "the media" assailed en masse when you tirelessly dedicate your days and nights to a process that yields you profoundly disproportionate monetary compensation. The older I get, and the further into my journalism career I push, the more difficult it is to hold up the other forms of compensation that come from this work as trade-offs for not being able to save any money toward my hopes of seeing the world, buying a home, and preparing to start a family.

More than 4 years ago a manager at a major NPR member station where I was about to start work told me, "you'll never be on our air." Not only did I prove him wrong inside of a year and a half, but I have since produced body of reporting work that I try daily to remind myself I should be proud of.

Recently I have started exploring another, more potentially-monetarily rewarding form of professional storytelling, at considerable financial risk, in order to fulfill a longtime personal goal. It would seem that I am going to have to become even poorer than I am now if I am to fully dedicate myself to this craft. In the meantime my work in journalism is what will have to sustain me, and that's looking like it will be more difficult than ever. Bad timing, you see, considering my aforementioned doubts about the profession, and the worth of my contributions to it thus far.

I wonder if any of my colleagues are feeling the same way?

I know I'm one of billions who've been through this; I say all of it in the context of having made very picky choices, after a few years of paying my dues, about what I would and would not do in this profession, and where I would and would not go. I also know that money does not buy happiness, and that I must work harder to find a sense of satisfaction and self-worth from within. When things get tough, I have my family - my mother and sister in particular - to remind me of my place in the world and to keep perspective. I am infinitely fortunate, as well, to have the people I love and who love me to give me easy silence, peaceful quiet and keep the world at bay, as the Dixie Chicks so eloquently put it.