Maybe it’s because it’s a naturally introspective time of year, maybe that it’s I’ve had four weeks lying on the sofa to think about it, but of late there’s been a faint notion buzzing round my consciousness that’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore: whilst I love my job, and the people I work with, the realisation that, long term, PR might not be for me.
It’s challenging (more often than not, in more ways than one), it’s creative, and it’s great fun. I’ve met some amazing people, and some I wouldn’t spit on if they were ablaze. It’s brilliant to see quotations I’ve written as box-outs on the BBC news site. I love the fact that part of what I get paid to do is write, and have heated discussions with my boss about syntax and grammar. I know vast amounts about how the media work, and can spot a PR-placed story at 100 paces. And, ultimately, when there’s integrity in a strategy and its implementation, I think PR can do an important job in communicating a message, whatever that may be.
Maybe if I were sitting in the press office of an organisation that does something worthwhile for mankind, it’d be different. But there are moments when I have to steel myself before I pick up the phone, knowing that I’m about to waste a poor journo’s time with information I know isn’t newsworthy. It doesn’t do anyone any favours – it pisses off the journo, and it makes for a depressing day for me, given the inevitable rudeness that follows.
And so, I think there will come a point when I will take a leap and see what else is out there that I could do without feeling compromised. Maybe something writingy; something politicky; something different entirely. But then, a job was advertised today for PR manager of a charity that I feel some affinity with – and maybe something like that is the way to go: day to day stuff I know I enjoy, for a client I really believe in.
Or maybe I should jack it all in, and revert to Plan A: marry rich. It’s gotta be easier than all this thinking.