Yesterday, us J-schoolers got “the talk.”
We sat in a lecture hall for an hour and 15 minutes and listened to professors tell us about our future.
A higher-up from each emphasis area (strategic communications, convergence, magazine, news, photo-j, etc.) got a 15-minute slot to tell us how hellishly amazing our lives would be should we choose their area of expertise. It was mildly intimidating, to say the least.
My emphasis area, magazine, was the third presentation. Representing the Magazine District: Jennifer Rowe!
This extraordinary woman stood before a class of 350 and in 15 minutes spun a tale of all my wildest hopes and dreams. Freelancing, long-form writing and Vox Magazine, oh my! My life flashed before my eyes. I could see myself living in New York City, trekking through the concrete jungle on the way to interview a bestselling author or review a newly released poetry collection.
In case the heading of this post didn’t make things clear enough, I want to work for the New Yorker. This magazine is a dreamy combination of snarky and literary, of pop-culture and intellect. I’m in love.
I’ve been in love for years, since the New Yorker’s (always stellar) cover art grabbed my attention in my mother’s bedside table magazine stack. I must have been about 12, nowhere close to understanding the illustration’s social satire, but nonetheless I recall a sort of mystified fascination.
With age came understanding. I’d steal the New Yorker right out of the mailbox (much to my mother’s chagrin–she never came close to getting first read). Sponge-like I soaked up the content, the stories and poems. (My favorite from this summer? Junot Díaz’s “Miss Lora.”)
Listening to Jennifer Rowe brought these memories flooding back. If the past is any indication of the future, I’m headed in the right direction.
For me “the talk” only confirmed what I already knew: I am destined for magazine journalism.
*knock on wood*