Navigating the Job Market; or 'The Titanic 2'

I need a job.

I have been unemployed for a while now. At the time quitting my job seemed like a good idea. “It’s time for me to move on,” I thought. “It’s time to move onto something bigger,” I thought. “I can’t be a kitchen hand forever,” I thought.

If I’d have thought a bit more I would have gotten another job before I quit. The point was though that it was time for change.

That idea didn’t work for the ALP; lord knows why I thought it would work for me.

The problem is I’m not really sure what I want to do. I mean, obviously I want to be a writer. I have things in motion to get my book published, so that’s looking pretty sunny. But as any writer will tell you (except for J. K. Rowling perhaps), writing isn’t a very profitable career.

So while I write, I’m going to need a job that actually comes with an income. But the more I search for jobs the more I realise I’m not suited to employment. I can’t believe how many jobs involve sales. I applied for a photography assistant’s job, and went for an interview the other day. They gave me a questionnaire to fill out (one of those ones where you fill circle the answers; sometimes, always, never, seldom etc). Some of the questions went like this;

“I enjoy small talk from the seller.”

“I want the seller to understand my feelings.”

“I question the seller on key points.”

Several questions of my own popped into my head, namely a) Why aren’t you asking me about clients rather than sellers and b) What the hell does this have to do with taking photos?

It seems that no matter what the job is, it will always involve a certain degree of pushing things onto other people, be it household appliances or having their children photographed. This leaves me in quite a conundrum. I like to think of myself as a people person, but I’m not the sort of people person who says ‘Good afternoon, how may I serve you,’ or ‘Would you like entrees with that?’ or even ‘I recommend you buy the 6 inch plasma flat screen TV because you’re a high earning, upwardly mobile, hedonistic bastard with more money than sense’.

It’s all down to what I need out of a job. 1) I need a job which will actually interest me – something where I can follow my passions such as language, history, research, books, writing. 2) I need a job where I’m not in other people’s faces, trying to explain to them why they should give their money to my bosses when there are so many banks out there that will also willingly rob them blind. 3) I need a job where I can learn to do it as I go along, rather than having to go and get yet another qualification. 4) I need a job which requires no previous experience in that area as it is impossible to get work experience when the only way to get a job is if you’ve already had experience in the first place, which is impossible to get unless you can get a job to get experience which is…. Etc. And so forth.

Surely there is a job out there for people like me?

Apparently not. I skim through each job I come across. It’s a little depressing. I cross them each off my list as I realise with a sinking feeling that I don’t fit any of the criteria. “Must have sales experience.” “2 years teaching experience required.” “Post-grad preferred.” “Must have a Certificate III or higher.” “Must have own panda.” Or, the one which lets me down the most; “Must enjoy working with people.”

Where does that leave the shy, awkward, inexperienced guy with a Communications degree?

The problem is that as a society we are too focused on competition, and of getting ahead of everyone else. Everyone seems to want to earn more, have bigger houses, have bigger boats, be king of the hill, head of the list, cream of the crop of the top of the heap, my little town blues are melting away, I’ll make a brand new start of it in old New York…..!

But beneath all that is a lot of clawing and backstabbing and conniving and lying and, unfortunately, very little spontaneous performances of old Broadway tunes.

There is hope though. I have been volunteering at Strathfield recently for a program  which helps migrants improve their English skills. No qualification needed, no sales, no competitive markets, no serving food to overweight, upper-class prats who don’t know how to cook for themselves. Just sitting down with people and doing the best I can to help them; teaching them what I know, and in return learning more about other people, other cultures and the world.

If I could get paid to do that, I’d have it made.

Sir Me and the Slightly Bizzare and Wankerish Autobiography.

My boyfriend asked me today to tell him how my publishing deal first came about. So I told him a tale; a tale of tragedy, triumph, love, history and, at some point, fact (God knows how that got in there).

            Once upon a time, a little five year old boy decided he wanted to be a writer (clearly he had no ambitions to earn money). All his life he was encouraged by his family; particularly his grandmother, who used to buy him books from the Angus and Robertson book store in Ulladulla.

            The boy grew up (in a manner). He went to school. He went to high-school. He started university. Soon he finished his first novel. For two years he sent it off to publishers and competitions, but to no avail.

            Meanwhile, Angus and Robertson struggled, despite the grandmother's constant book buying (and the considerable effort on her grandson’s part to buy half the books in Australia and cram them into various spaces in his tiny bedroom). So soon Angus and Robertson closed down, and there was much wailing and gnashing of pears. But the owner of the old store was smart and wily and opened up his own independent book store.

            The little boy who had sort of grown up was still trying his luck with the Big Bad publishers around the state. But one day he woke up, went to his mirror and said; “Mirror mirror on the wall… screw it, I'm going to self-publish.”

            So he began to make many inquiries into different companies who could print his book. He saved his money, he drew book covers, and planned sequels. Before long he found a company which he could get to print his book. So the boy began to look for bookstores which would stock his book once it was printed.

            Verily one day he happed to remember the man and his store which had provided him with so many Birthday and Christmas presents over the years. So one fateful morning he decided to ring the bookstore and said "I am going to self-publish; I was wondering if you wanted to stock my book once it is printed." These were his words, and there was no begging nor pleading nor cries of “publish me for the love of God!”

            And the man, Sir Wishes-to-Remain-Anonymous said; "Nay! Do not waste your money on lousy printing and poor workmanship. I am opening my own publishing house and I shall publish the book for you!"

            And the angels did sing and the heavens did part and a heavenly host sang Hallelujiah, except they spelt it better.

            Thus the alliance was formed, and a star shone in the East over the town of Bethlehem, and Atlantis arose from the depths of the ocean, and the sword was removed from the stone, and Sir Wishes-to-Remain-Anonymous became the true King of England and the little boy suddenly realised he had to edit his book and became a hermit for the rest of his days.

            The end