Why I'm still a journo

Journalism does not put food on the table.

Okay, maybe it does, if you consider chap chye peng or your char bee hoon.

But journalism does not put very good food on the table -- unless of course, you're a food reviewer.

I always imagine my socialite friends striking me off their potluck invite list as a result, though I really shouldn't be adding to the toilet roll-long list of reasons people shun reporters.

It's not exactly a glamorous job, unless of course, you're a prime-time news anchor or editor of some glossy magazine, or the devil who wears Prada.

After all, it's not as if we're the only ones who can ask questions, snoop around, string info into a story and hit spell check, right?

Plus, I'm always kept on my toes after every story's been published. On some days, prudent readers make me feel like toenail dirt.

OMG. How could he have gotten that wrong?!
That F*****G reporter misqouted me!
Can you kindly tell me what sort of logic this is?
Wow, you're so intelligent! Okay, I made this one up, just to balance views.

Come to think of it, there are many cons to my job.

Yet, I love it.

I know right. Some people are just suckers for punishment.

Perhaps, I love journalism because of the salary? Oh, please, don't even get me started. Then again, why not?

So here we go.

When I was in Secondary Three, my heavy-chested English teacher made the class think of our future. Think about how you can turn what you're good at and what you love doing, into a career, she told us.

After a grand total of 10 minutes, I decided at age 15, that the only option I'm left with -- after considering issues of legality, decency and morality -- is to be a reporter.

Thick skinned, check. Love digging other people's secrets, check. Love to talk -- even to strangers, Oooo, yeah, check, check, check.

And so began my journey to journalism.

But as I started my editorial journey, I learnt that there's more to journalism than the ideal world my 15-year-old self had imagined.

In my uni days, I was given a chance to chase a story with an angle that went against my principles.

Ethics or byline, I remember asking myself. The answer was obvious. To hell with ethics.

My story ended up on page two of the university paper, and was one of 20 stories picked out of 200 submissions.

Though I kept the newspaper cutting, I've never re-read that piece to this day.

It took me weeks of guilt to realise that a byline is worth nothing, a story is worth nothing, if I cannot justify why I wrote it the way it was.

The 15-year-old Wai Kit didn't predict journalism to be like that. Isn't it as simple as writing something the way it is?

Years later, when I embarked on my career in a magazine, I was confronted by a stumbling block: My incredibly low salary.

Eh, Wai Kit, my shampoo girl earns more than you leh, a thoughtful friend once said to me. Lovely person, that one.

Indeed, for many years, my take-home pay had been, take a deep breath, S$1,300, and we're talking about a hardworking dean's-list graduate here, leh. 

For years, the only food that I put on the table was really chap chye peng or char bee hoon, I kid you not.

Two kind-hearted colleagues, who eventually learnt of my poor situation, quietly offered to lend me money at the end of the month, in case I had to resort to eating shredded secret documents for lunch.

But I got by my literally poor literary days because, to use a cliched term, I had passion.

Over the years of my work, I've grown to love every aspect of journalism.

I loved speaking to one and sundry -- from cabbies and politicians to diva pop stars and suicide survivors -- all in the name of a good story.

I loved waking up in the morning, raring to go to work to complete that story which I know can make a teeny-weeny impact to society.

I loved reading the Sunday papers and being inspired to come up with quirky story ideas to rival theirs.

I loved poring over stacks of printed research, leafing my interview pad with a saliva-ed finger, and cracking my head to come up with the best possible way to present that story.

I even loved the tedious process of fact-checking the ozalids before the pages are finally sent to print.

At the end of each month, when the magazines arrive at our office, just thumbing the glossy pages gives me gratification.

I was certain that if I put my nose near the magazine and rapidly flipped the pages with my thumb, I'd be able to smell cold coffee and the sweat that went into the stories.

It helped too, that the people I worked with had the same passion. The same love for journalism. And the same miserable pay. So when the going got tough, we all ate chap chye peng or char bee hoon together.

Most importantly, I didn't dread my work.

Not many people can wake up every day. Some die in their sleep.

And for those who can wake up every day, not everyone can tell himself that, damn, I can't wait to get to work.

I was -- and am -- such a person.

Though I'm earning more than S$1,300 now, I'm still grossly underpaid.

But at the end of the day, I tell myself that as long as journalism can put chap chye peng or char bee hoon on my table, and as long as I still love what I do, I won't think about the cons of my job -- even if I can't earn a lot.

I can only hope that one day, I don't end up eating my words.