The Great Job Search

Since I left Rogers Publishing last April, I gradually made my way down a rather lengthy checklist. The last step of that list was also the most important building block in my successful relocation to London: securing a job in the UK journalism sector.

Full disclosure, I had been forewarned about the existing struggle in the UK job market. When I contacted my cousin Pearl in June to tell her of my plans, she wrote back: “I would advise you to be cautious about whether prospects will be any different here. Our economy has been hit even harder than yours and, although this is a field I know little about, I think there are many people chasing few jobs here.”

Although I appreciated the brutal honesty, I was already mired in doubt about my decision to move across the pond. Only five days before I was made redundant, the BBC published an article warning of the impending “death of journalism.” Not news exactly, but it was becoming more and more evident that I was trained in a field that was completely reinventing itself in order to fight extinction. And, to top it all off, I was planning to move to a country – and city – that was the worse hit by the economic crisis (save NYC and the rest of the states).

But I did it anyways. I was nearing the summit of my new life strategy and there really was no looking back. I was jobless, and almost homeless, plus I had just given the UK Border Agency a good chunk of cash for my work visa. I started to apply exclusively for jobs in London mid-way through the summer. As a result, I had two interviews lined up for the week following my arrival.

My first interview was for a job as an energy market reporter. Granted, I know very little about the energy market, but keep in mind that, before my stint at HPAC Magazine, I knew almost nothing about heating, plumbing and air conditioning systems. The best part of what I do for a living is the process of acquiring new knowledge about a niche industry. My innate curiosity is probably why I can’t name the field I currently specialize in. I thrive on learning little bits of wisdom about all different facets of the world.

As you probably gathered, I didn’t get that first job. The editor, also an expat, was gracious and kind, but she found a candidate who had more relevant experience in the energy market. This line would become a familiar one as the weeks slipped by. There is always someone who has more experience than me in the financial markets, the construction sector, as a sub-editor or as a commissioning editor.

But I wore on. I continued applying for jobs. I dressed up in blazers and heels, carrying my portfolio, and commuted to all corners of the Greater London Area (that’s right, we have a GLA). I shouldered the barrage of rejections again and again and again.

Among my 11 interviews (two of which were two-part meetings for the same job), two jobs invited me in for full-day working interviews. At a construction trade magazine, they pilfered my copy, tested my InDesign skills and then made me sit through a truly bizarre interview where the editor and his deputy essentially answered their own questions while I sat, slightly confused, between them.

I also spent a day at London’s Evening Standard, chasing stories and comments for the newspaper’s “Londoner’s Diary” section. Neither of these jobs materialized into a position for me, but I did leave feeling slightly used and violated; a brilliant way to pinch free words in an economy where real journalists are vanishing.

Never waivering from my quest for the perfect journalism gig, I eventually did own up to the fact that I would have to start earning a paycheque, no matter where it came from. The savings well was drying up, my meagre freelance pay barely covered my bad habits, and London wasn’t getting any cheaper. Before my move across the pond, I had told friends and family that, if I didn’t find a job by Christmas, I would simply come home. But I wasn’t ready to give up just yet. My desire to remain in London trumped my pride. I would do any form of labour to continue to call this city home.

Through a friend, I found out about a company called Off To Work, a temp catering agency that hired me on the spot for my background in both catering (somewhat exaggerated) and barista (completely warranted) work. The job turned out to be the ideal compromise for my lifestyle. I simply applied online for the shifts I was interested in and then would venture out to discover new areas of the city and collect loads of new friends. I worked anywhere between zero and five days a week (never on weekends): serving champagne at an Irish wake within the walls of Holland Park, proffering canapés at a private function among the photographs of the National Portrait Gallery and, the majority of the time, slinging cappucinos at corporate cafés.

I put in my time at Virgin Media, Sony Playstation (video games in the corporate restaurant!), CB Richard Ellis, St. Paul’s Cathedral, and a variety of law, accounting, brokerage and advertising firms. Some of those jobs I adored (free coffee and food, amazing co-workers, cute boys in suits) and others I loathed (finicky bosses, long days on my feet, a stalker). But I was, the whole time, aware that I was slipping backwards from my original goal.

At the end of January I had three big interviews over the space of a week and a half. The first was the associate editor position at a renewables magazine called Windpower Monthly. I interviewed with a very attractive man named Ben, who told me straight off that I was probably not qualified enough for the position, though he did see something brilliant in my CV. After my initial surprise at the seemingly ineffectual use of my time, we had a truly fantastic interview, but I ultimately lost out to someone who had more experience. Story of my life.

The second position was the editorial researcher for a publication that covered the digital television market. After two interviews it became clear to me that this wasn’t the job for me, though if they hired me I would do it gladly. Beggers can’t be choosy. I was spared in the end, as a career researcher proved to be a better fit for the position.

The final interview was to be a reporter at a trade magazine called Employee Benefits, which serviced a niche industry of HR professionals across the UK. The same week I was rejected by the other two jobs, I was offered a short term contract with EB. The news was mixed. I was not being hired for the full-time gig because another candidate had more than 20 months left in the country (my work visa was slowly ticking away), along with experience in the HR sector. However, the new reporter could not escape her current position for almost three months, so I was being brought in to fill the interim.

My first day was February 15, so I have already spent one week in my new contract position and couldn’t be enjoying it more. We start the day at 9:30AM with free coffees and five national newspapers, which we scour for business stories to adapt and confirm before posting them to our website. Then I spend the rest of the day chasing additional news stories to post online, writing content for the print edition and getting to know my new colleagues: two editors, two reporters and an art editor.

I really do feel like I have stepped into the perfect scenario. Sure, it would be great to start a full-time job right away, but experiencing a small taste of a reporter’s life is a great compromise. Now I have UK work experience on my CV, access to Centaur Media’s Intranet for internal job postings with the publishing house, and an editor who is genuinely sorry she couldn’t hire me long term and makes up for it by suggesting job search websites on a daily basis. My office is a mere 30-minute bus ride from my flat and one-hour lunches are spent cruising the shopping mecca that is Oxford Street. Last but not least, I am already learning a great deal in my new role, acquiring valuable skills for my journalism career.