Journalism's dependence on part-time freelancers has been bad for the industry—not to mention the writers themselves.
“These are the bitter reminiscences of a failed journalist and downwardly mobile millennial. Someone taught to believe that some form of knowledge work would always be available to him, that hard work, talent, and a dependable wage run in parallel stride. Every generation has its comeuppance. Ours lies in the vast field of disappointment that you land in after you run the gauntlet of privatized education, unpaid internships, and other markers of the prestige economy. There you find that writing ability or general intelligence mean nothing if you don’t have the right connections, or the ability to flatter those in authority, or a father who once held the same job. Those who have mastered these forms of soft power succeed while the rest learn the meaning of “precariat” and debate joining the Democratic Socialists of America.”
When I don’t direct my anger at myself with indulgent acts of self-criticism, I have learned to resent every emblem of my private education, to see it as an act of gall in a world where resources are distributed so inequitably. I resent the hundreds of thousands of dollars spent on my schooling, money that now seems like a great sunken cost (a concept that is itself a product of neoliberal, put-a-price-tag-on-everything thinking). Looking back on the last ten years, I see a foolish pursuit of an intellectually engaged life. As my friends became consultants, designers, and marketing experts, I thought I was going to be a book critic. It seems ridiculous, like announcing I was going to sell typewriters.
. . . .
All of this, I admit, is the sour refrain of someone speaking from the infantilizing cocoon of privilege. There is no trust fund in my name, but if I didn’t have the support of my parents, a partner who makes a steady but poor-for-New-York living as a social worker, and the occasional loan from a friend, my material conditions would be far different. Perhaps I would have wised up sooner, with financial desperation driving me to work on Wall Street or go to law school. That is, assuming that these places would have me. Selling out has proved harder than I envisioned.
. . .
Recently I was talking to someone who works at a small magazine. We were friends but also colleagues, which meant that I resented her employment but also had been cultivating our friendship over several years, during which she occasionally floated the possibility of a job that invariably never materialized. I told her that I was once again looking for a job, any job. I no longer held journalism in self-defeating, sacred regard and would look widely. In fact, after I’d written critically about tech for years, it now seemed like the only area where I might find employment.
“I’m applying for a content job at WeWork,” I said.
“Don’t work for WeWork,” she said dismissively.
“I need a job, an income.”
She had nothing to say.
