There will always be a clear path cut out in my head if I am to succeed as a journalist. First: to establish myself at a university publication, rise through the ranks; with the goal to eventually run the thing. Then, I’d use this time as a student to start writing for some local papers. Pro-bono, with university-related headlines that can be sent off to titles like The Press & Journal, The National, maybe The Herald. Straight forward enough. I’d use my proximity to relevant university news to break into the world of ‘real’ journalism, then start to network the connections I made for other types of press. Maybe do an internship; or work experience. Start to write about my actual interests. Maybe even get approached with commissioned work. Then, in this neat journey of stepping stones, the next big thing will happen.
Real, paid, shift work at a big newspaper, something they approach me for. Something that feels huge. I’ll sit in a real newspaper office, at a desk, surrounded by other like-minded writers; clicking at laptops, answering phones, yelling over potential scoops. Euphony to a young writer; they will become the soundtrack to the life I know to be a success. However, it will quickly dawn on me that my inner monologue does not match the crowded scenes of the office I inhabit. In fact, my head is notably empty. Perhaps the emptiest it has ever been.
This sounds discouraging, but I can assure that I am not always like this. I’m usually the opposite.
I would argue my best work has always been thought up when standing behind a bar. Quiet shifts clear space for moments that stretch hours; happily spent pondering, writing, reading, editing. Jam-packed bar stools bring ample opportunity to eavesdrop, keeping me swinging from conversation to conservation as I navigate each side of the bar. I end up catching snippets of each group’s dialogue, forcing me to fill in the blanks of what I imagine they might be saying once I’ve moved out of earshot. I can greet my best friends at one end of the bar, only to be met with a raging drunk at the other, before pouring an automatic refill for a regular, after checking in on the molly-eyed loner white-knuckling the bar. The rollercoaster ride across the grooves of my own mind intermingled with strangers’, friends’ and colleagues’ chatter has brought me to some of my greatest revelations. From articles like this one, to dissertation ideas, to personal epiphanies, I can’t remember the last time I didn’t make some sort of active choice based on a conversation in my head whilst manning a bar. I even wrote the concept of this article on an orders pad and began writing the full thing onto a paper takeaway bag behind the pâtisserie at my current job. True to form, simply existing in the serving sphere brought new ideas bubbling to the surface.
To any current or future employers reading, I’d like to make it clear I am just as vigilant of the venue as I am my own brainwaves when I’m on the clock. Somehow, the effort and attention it takes to run a space like a bar or cafe coexists with my own creative flow; making me (in my own head at least) decent at both tasks.
Anyways, back to my newspaper office misdemeanour. Assuming this constant stream of creativity was native to my own mind, I had little fear walking into my first paid newspaper role. I was probably more nervous for the little details – where was the coffee machine, did the toilet have tampons, are my clothes appropriate…the list continues – than my own actual ability. Perhaps this was foolish.
The funny thing is, creativity, to me, is synonymous with hospitality. The same way that all the boring, cookie-cutter folks I have encountered in my life would be unable to problem-solve in the case of hospo-emergencies; the best, most talented creatives people I’ve met have been colleagues and fellow tradees. I ran into a magazine on Instagram based around highlighting working class creatives, that mostly inspired the title for this piece. Fair Play (@fairplayutd) sports funky posts with messages like “all my favourite artists work behind a bar” or “all my favourite musicians are swapping shifts for a show” – and I entirely concur. We so often find the struggling artist to be some of the best, clearly (in my opinion) pushed into excellence by the hardship they face on the journey to their craft, but also due to the reality they face on a day-today basis. This is not to say that career-based creatives in offices are not mustering up the same level of genius as hospitality workers – but I do believe there is something especially magic in the spark that occurs through working hands.
I suppose I had seen this working struggle as part of my stepping stone journey. I’d work; scrawling ideas after a close in dodgy late night bars whilst waiting for my night bus home, pushing out sentences as my eyelids grew heavier. Eventually, all this strife would blossom to the point where there was no longer any need to work hospitality jobs. I am beginning to think this is not the case.
I could very much be speaking for myself, but I am itching to agree that the better journalist does pour the best pint. Sitting in an office isn’t conducive to the constant affront of real-world problems that a journalist must witness to produce the best version of their work. Perhaps the most meaningful articles can only be eked out in between shifts; inspired by the continuous drip-feed of real life that people-facing jobs provide. It could also be just as likely that i am in a desperate search for an answer to my lack of inspiration.
I find myself yearning to be behind the bar again and hope something will spark when I am back at the Edinburgh Fringe this August. I desperately hope I will not be met with the same silence that deafened me in the office. Perhaps I am naive and privileged enough to be able to rely on these jobs to inspire me, but until I can muster up the artistic notions that hospitality work provides, I am happy to say I’m better journalist, when pouring the best pint.
