Since we last spoke, I have made a couple of changes to my life.
One, I got older.
Two, I got thinner. Still fat though, just smaller. And just as short.
Three, I made a career change.
Know how I was a magazine writer? Yea…..I jumped….to the news desk. And for the last 7 months ladies and gentlemen, this drama queen you have come to know and adore and worship and most definitely missed…have been covering the business end of the news spectrum.
Finance news spectrum.
Bitches, I am a legit financial journalist. And I have never even taken a damn account or even economy or even an “Intro to Finance 101” class in my entire life.
However, my white, straight up corporate business card (no longer sparkly pink one) now says:
I had the most intense, batshit crazy three-longass probational months where I was thrown head first into the financial world. The first week started innocently enough. “CD, write a 50 words brief out of this press release.” “CD, we need an update of that bank’s statement. Check the database and just rewrite from there.”
Life’s pretty smooth sailing sailing when you’re a so-called financial journalist with no finance background whatsoever when all you have to do is rewrite press releases. Pretty, fucken smooth.
So yeah, the first week was…paradise.
And then it begun;
“We need someone to cover the stock exchange today. Who’s not busy? CD, you know where Bursa Malaysia is? Get your ass there.”
“CD, I want the exclusive with Bank A’s CEO. By 4pm today. Get it done.”
“CD, what was the financing structure of that syndicated deal? What was the loophole? No loophole? Bullshit. Find it.”
“Eurozone. Interbank money markets. 1000 words. 9am, my desk…..Why are you still standing there gawking at me?”
To say that it was rough, was an understatement of epic propositions. The intense deadlines, the yelling, the running all over the place, the whole harrasing CEOs for interviews, chasing economists for comments and all the while learning about finance as you go was just fucken batshit insane man.
The first month, I spent 6 lunchtimes crying in the restroom. How utterly pathetic. But it happened. And I’m not ashamed that it did. It was that bad. It was that intense. It was that stressful that I was up at night just hanging out at the stock exchange page just so I’m updated and won’t be caught surprise on Monday on whatever the fuck crashed over the weekend.
It didn’t helped that the copy editor was a complete beast. Up to three rewrites on most of my pieces, looking over her glasses and asking “And…you have a degree in journalism?” in a spiteful condescending way.
It was bad. I thought of quitting a couple of times. But I didn’t. Just kept going. Just kept learning. Just kept doing the rewrites. Then, it was three months. Was confirmed, got a raise and suddenly…things were rosy.
Apparently, baptism by fire is the way they do it here. And as it turns out, that’s just the way a newsroom, a proper newsroom work. It is a fucking warzone everyday and if you can’t fucking take it then you can pack up your shit and leave.
There’s still yelling now and there’s still a shitload I don’t understand but these days instead of being completely blindsided by the finance world…I actually know what the fuck I’m talking about. Sort of.
Well, it has only been seven months. And I haven’t cried in six. So…it’s good. I'm good. Good enough to have left over time to be back to blogging again.