Tips on how to change into a journey author

When I used to be making an attempt to determine tips on how to change into a journalist, it appeared unattainable to interrupt in with out going to journalism college — or at the very least going to a college with an enormous journalism program.

I ultimately discovered that’s a fantasy.

This submit is for brand spanking new writers, struggling writers, and profession pivoters. It’s not a blueprint for changing into a journey journalist, however it’s the tangled path that labored for me. (Knocks on wooden.) It took restaurant shifts, hostel bunks, and waking up in a Thai hospital to get me right here.

But I bought right here — now seven years right into a employees job at a serious newspaper, and 11 years of being paid to jot down. No journalism diploma required.

Maybe you’ll discover one thing helpful within the journey.

The instinct to write was always there. Growing up, I made travel journals, and wrote “newspapers” and short stories for classmates. I told my family I wanted to be Rick Steves. In junior high and high school, I joined school newspapers and covered anything thrown at me: sports, trend reports, spicy student issues.

I hoped this could eventually become a real job. But when it came time to go to college, I thought being a lawyer sounded safer.

In 2009, I went to the University of the Pacific with a small scholarship to join their “Pacific Legal Scholars” program, which put members on a fast track to their law school. We did LSAT prep and took field trips to meet law professionals — everyone from trial lawyers to a Supreme Court Justice — to give students an idea of what you could do with a JD. Not even a semester in, I realized law was not for me. The reading was dense, the writing was cold, and I wasn’t ready to give up on media.

So I switched to a communications major, taking the few journalism classes the school offered, plus “intro to TV writing,” and public relations courses. I worked for the student newspaper, wrote a blog for the college admissions office, and got unpaid internships over the summers. I could only do this because my parents took out loans — a privilege that let me focus on school alone — and my brother and his wife putting me up rent-free in their apartment while I interned in San Francisco.

And still, I had a minor breakdown my sophomore year. I left UOP convinced that I’d be happier somewhere else, and besides, if I was really serious about pursuing media, I should go to a school that specialized in it.

But after spending a semester at home — going to community college, touring some other schools and interning at my hometown’s local magazine — I found out that transferring anywhere new would add at least an extra year to my college experience. I decided to go back to UOP instead.

After I graduated, I moved back to San Francisco to start my “real life.”

My first paying job in San Francisco was at a French restaurant called Cafe Des Amis. I loved it — the adrenaline rush of a busy shift, learning about food and wine.

It paid my rent, $1,000 a month for an SRO, or “Single Room Occupancy“ apartment, a term that meant the place was tiny and shared a bathroom with the hall. But it had a mini fridge and a bay window that overlooked Market Street. I was in heaven.

The restaurant job also got me through my unpaid internship at a hospitality PR firm. They represented Bay Area restaurants, hotels, chefs, food festivals, and tourism boards. I wrote press releases and made spreadsheets. The firm hired me a few months later to be a full-time entry-level “account coordinator” (annual salary: $40,000).

It was a perfect first adult job. I had to show up at an office in business casual. They taught me about event planning and pitching new business. I learned how to find contact information for reporters and editors, and pitch them story ideas. Even better, I got to wine and dine them in the city’s best restaurants on the company’s dime.

And then I got restless. A friend was moving to Thailand for a nonprofit job, and asked if I wanted to travel around Southeast Asia before she started.

Of course I did, but I couldn’t get the time off — not that I could afford the trip anyway. I stewed. If I couldn’t go backpacking, I’d just … move to Bangkok instead?

I bought a one-way ticket leaving four months later, and started trying to find a job. If I couldn’t get something in my field, I figured I could teach English.

In a newsletter for expat entrepreneurs, I came across a profile of a Bangkok-based hotel booking startup and fired them an email. One of the founders replied a month later and asked to set up an interview. Come September, I’d saved a few thousand dollars by living frugally, had a job offer and a start date (monthly salary: 40k Thai Baht, or $1,235).

I was 23 years old and out of my depth, now a “Communication & PR Manager” in a country where I didn’t speak the local language (although I could get by in a taxi). I wrote founder bios, and copyedited our website and app. I went on dates and kept a blog for friends and family back home.

And then I almost killed myself. By accident.

Three months into the job, we went on a company retreat. There was some drinking — a little on the bus ride there, some more when we gathered around the hotel pool for dinner. Amidst the merriment, a friend of mine got thrown into the pool. I dove in after her. The pool turned out to be shallow, maybe 5 feet deep.

Two hospitals and 60 stitches later, I was lucky to be alive — even luckier to have avoided paralysis.

That night in the hospital — groggy from the accident and unsure whether I was going to be my “normal” self again — I had one huge regret: I’d never really tried to be a writer. Not in any significant way at least. My life was journalism-adjacent, but I was nowhere close to being a journalist. I vowed to try harder when I recovered.

Out of the neck brace and back at my startup job, I picked up my side hustle. I introduced myself to local editors and cold-pitched every website, magazine and newspaper email address I could find. Some early wins were just seeing my name published, often without pay. A few months later I was making $60 to write and photograph food and drink pieces for Coconuts Bangkok, and getting regular work for a site called Lifestyle Asia.

My biggest break came when I pitched a generic email address for Vice Magazine’s food section, Munchies. They said no to my cat cafe story idea, but encouraged me to send more. So I did.

They took my pitch for a thousand-word piece on the hospital food I ate after my big accident, and another on a sous vide cocktail trend I’d noticed. I got paid $150 for each, which felt staggering. It kickstarted a 5-year freelancing relationship with Vice, with my rate eventually increasing to $250 an article.

In January 2015, I got an email from the editor-in-chief of a local luxury magazine. He’d seen my work and asked if I wanted to apply for a staff writer position. A month later, I quit the startup and was officially a full-time writer (monthly salary: 40k Thai Baht, or $1,235. I asked them to match my startup pay).

The job was surreal. The EIC was very “Devil Wears Prada,” always off somewhere fabulous entertaining advertisers. He taught me to enjoy a Stroopwafel steamed over a cup of tea in our skyscraper office, and caught me up with who was who in Thai high society. He sent me to press conferences, and to review spas and restaurants at five-star hotels. I interviewed socialites and went on my very first press trip to a fancy hotel in Phuket where I felt like a sloppy, sweaty foreigner in a group of the most elegant members of the Thai press.

The restlessness struck again.

My mom came to visit me, and we spent a week in Bali. Like any white western woman, I was taken by the island immediately and felt desperate to spend more time there. I couldn’t go to an office anymore.

When I returned to Bangkok that Monday, a mere three months into the job, I put in my notice. I will never forget what the editor said when I quit: “You can’t just go away for a weekend of fun in the sun and come back and let everyone down.”

He was right. They’d spent hours and hours (not to mention money) to get me a Thai work permit, and now I was throwing it in their faces. I’ll always regret acting so unprofessionally. But the world was calling.

I got rid of my Bangkok apartment, packed some clothes, my laptop and DSLR camera into a backpack and left town to freelance wherever interest took me. First I went to Northern Thailand, Cambodia, made it back to Indonesia, then India. I filed stories from cafes, hostels, airports, and bus terminals.

As I met more editors and writers, I found out about the holy grail of freelancing: copywriting gigs.

These paid far better than lifestyle journalism. A good gig was getting $500 to write a batch of social media posts and advertorial copy for a Thai beer brand. A fantastic one was landing a massive $6,000 project to write brand guidelines and website copy for a hotel opening in the Maldives.

With this windfall, I bought a flight to Japan and stayed in a shared Airbnb where my “bed” was the slice of linoleum underneath a bunk bed (the actual bunk cost more). I took the Shinkansen to the coast and tried to surf. Some days were exhilarating, others were extremely lonely.

The trip marked my one year anniversary in Asia. Shortly after, a family member died and I didn’t want to be so far away anymore.

I flew back to California, moving in with my sister and her (now) husband in Silver Lake, and got a job at Pok Pok, a trendy Thai restaurant. I kept freelancing for Vice, and picked up work at LA Weekly ($100 a story), LA Magazine ($100 a story), in-flight magazines ($400 for an LA guide for Singapore Airlines, $180 a story for Philippines Airlines). Working with Food Network felt like winning the jackpot. They paid ~$1,000 for stories (with photos) like the 27 best burgers in LA, and the most iconic foods in California.

As my bylines proliferated, I started getting invitations for press trips. In exchange for all-expense-paid travel hosted by alcohol companies, tourism boards, hotel brands, etcetera, you agreed to write about the client footing the bill.

It’s an ethically questionable undertaking.

On the one hand, you assume you can use your judgement to write a fair and balanced story. On the other, you’re experiencing the [hotel, distillery, destination] from a VIP point of view, often with a publicist chirping in your ear. And after a brand spends $10,000 on your hosted experience, you may feel obligated to cover them favorably.

As a fledgling writer, I wanted to take every opportunity to travel and learn from experts around the world. I also wanted readers to be able to trust me. So how do you say yes to a tequila brand’s invitation to Guadalajara without just publishing a story that said “everyone should buy this tequila!” I found a helpful workaround.

Instead of writing a puff piece about the brand itself, on many press trips, I’d interview the owner, or concierge, or manager — some kind of spokesperson from the brand — and feature them as an expert in the resulting story.

Usually, I’d get an invitation from a brand, then pitch an idea from the trip to an editor without mentioning it’d been hosted. Most editors knew this kind of thing happened, but treated it as a don’t-ask-don’t-tell arrangement.

There was one big exception: newspapers. Many have policies to avoid any “pay for play” articles. Also, if an editor from any outlet said they were uncomfortable with press trips, I would honor that stance and pitch them something that didn’t involve a comp.

But making $100-$250 for most of my articles, I would have never been able to afford the extensive travel that press trips gave me. They helped me climb Mount Kilimanjaro, cruise to Antarctica, sauna in Finland, and trek to Everest Basecamp. Whenever I could, I’d tack on additional days to the trip so I had more time to find more story ideas and maximize the opportunity.

By 2019, I’d been to every continent, had a contract with GQ to write a few food and travel stories per month ($250-300 per article), and gotten assignments with a handful of dream outlets: Bon Appétit ($300 for ~600 words), Wired ($1,500 for a deeply fact-checked feature) the Los Angeles Times ($750 for 750 words, plus photos). I got to interview Anthony Bourdain.

Since I’d started freelancing in 2015, my income had been going up each year, as evidenced by what I reported in my tax filings:

• 2015 income: $24,130

• 2016: $33,062

• 2017: $40,266

• 2018: $42,769

Even though it took a few years, I was finally making as much as I did as an entry-level publicist in San Francisco. Sure, I didn’t have any benefits (I had basic health insurance through California’s public program), but I was a working writer.

As 2019 continued, my trajectory took a downward turn.

My longtime editors at Vice and Playboy left, and assignments were getting harder to come by. GQ shut down its travel and food section, voiding my contract. I was a finalist for the New York Times 52 Places reporter job (and blew a grand flying from Japan to Manhattan last-minute for the interview).

Traveling nearly full-time, I’d gotten rid of my apartment in LA to live with my sister and her husband, but they were having a baby so I moved from their guest room into their garage.

At 28, my writing opportunities dwindling, living in a garage took a toll on my psyche. Maybe the life I’d built was unsustainable.

I’d met plenty of writers who had better paying day jobs or spouses to keep them afloat. I started looking for PR and comms openings, as journalism ones seemed nonexistent. I thought about moving to a cheaper city (Las Vegas?) where I wouldn’t have to be a freeloader relying on my family members.

Then I got an email that would change my life.

An editor from a major newspaper reached out about a job opening in their new travel section. She’d seen my work in GQ and thought I’d be a good fit, did I want to apply? It sounded too good to be true.

But a few months later, I was on a flight to Washington D.C. for a day of in-person interviews. They put me up in a hotel a block away from the office, and I spent the evening jogging around the National Mall. I watched young adults play rec soccer with the Washington Monument towering in the background. The appeal of a stable life began to take shape.

Soon after, the paper offered me the job, but I turned it down. I was worried I was a flight risk, that I’d quit in six months — unable to handle a desk job — and disappoint them like I’d done to the luxury magazine. I explained my concerns and they asked me to reconsider.

After a few convincing phone calls from incredulous family and friends, I changed my mind. In April 2019, I moved to Washington to be a staff travel reporter (salary: $70,000).

Thank. Christ. I. Said. Yes.

My job at the newspaper has been transformative.

It gave me the chance to work with best-in-class editors. It forced me to write more, and faster, without sacrificing quality (I used to take an eternity to finish a story as a freelancer, and treated every assignment with a preciousness that cost me time and money — maybe it was also procrastination). I’ve been pushed to write breaking news, challenging accountability stories and profiles, and get sent on wild adventures to cover the “world’s biggest pizza convention” and the Paris baguette competition. I learned how to produce my own videos, and now think about a story as much in terms of how I’ll write it as how I’ll film it.

Life looks completely different now than it did as a freelancer.

Joining the paper meant an immediate stop to press trips and freebies (see also: newspaper ethics, which I now appreciate as a gift to our readers). The end of my heavy travel routine was also jarring.

Instead of starting the day where and when I please, I’m supposed to swipe my badge at the corporate office and report to an editor with a progress report every morning. I pitch ideas every day, many are turned down. I make mistakes that require official corrections, and write any story assigned to me whether I love the idea or not. Some days feel like I’m doing a pure dream job, other days feel like it’s a job job.

If I didn’t take this 9 to 5, I wouldn’t have slowed down enough to meet my husband, or won the Society of American Travel Writers Foundation’s top award two years running (I wouldn’t have even known to apply! It pays $1,500. You can submit your own work here).

Our paper recently went through brutal layoffs that obliterated the jobs of nearly half the reporting staff. As we waited to find out who was cut, I thought about the prospect of going freelance again — not as an untethered youth, but a pregnant 35-year-old.

Today, my annual salary is $113,586. It would take an extreme amount of luck and effort to make that working the way I used to in my 20s. Moreover, writers now compete with AI platforms that can do copywriting work for next-to-nothing, and fewer “prestige” outlets that pay decent rates than ever before.

When new writers ask if it’s possible to follow my path, I say I’m not sure.

But there are glimmers of hope. There are more platforms than ever before to publish your own work and get paid for it. There’s money in social media and short-form video production. I know people who have gotten lucrative book deals, and have friends that freelance full-time, and are thriving in the process.

If I was laid off tomorrow, I would give freelancing a try and keep an eye out for those rare staff positions.

Until the axe falls, I’ll keep writing and keep learning as long as I can. It’s been an honor to chase my calling.

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