Journalism Junkie

I scrawled the poem with deliberately inelegant hand: a trite verse
espousing the virtues of Barbie. Adding my name and age in neater
'adult' writing, my first submission was complete. I'd lied about my
age, being eight, not four and a half. I'd lied about my affection for
Barbie, preferring the softer charms of Sindy. I'd lied about regularly
reading 'Barbie' magazine, having found it lying on my sister's bedroom
floor. Getting my letter printed was all that mattered. I was an
eight-year old print prostitute.

By fourteen, my addiction had spiralled. Letters were no longer enough.
I needed a serious features fix.

Persistence paid off and I was offered work experience at the local
paper. Selecting badger photos to illustrate the 'Nature Watch'
campaign failed to supply the necessary high. Endless re-writing of
turgid press releases was vindicated only when an inch of my work was
published.

I got the hit I craved.

At university, I met other addicts. We tripped out on headlines,
sucking people into stories they'd otherwise ignore. Dark shadows under
my eyes gave public display to my shame. Words were my closest
friends.

Graduation led to the ultimate binge. I was elected editor of the
student paper. Sleep was culled with shots of nicotine and caffeine.
'Right to reply' replaced relationships. News replaced nightclubs. I
was obsessed with writing wrongs. I knew I was facing a life
sentence.

So as my year finished, I took the methadone approach. I moved to
London, got a job in PR and threw my creativity into press releases -
but it was a poor substitute for hard copy. If the future is there is
black and white, I should have read the signs long ago. I am a
journalism junkie.