When I graduated from my Master’s course last November, I was under no illusions about the job market. After my undergraduate course ended in 2012 I worked on what I liked to call a semi-freelance basis, which was basically a made up, fancy way of saying I signed on in between paid jobs. I took on a Master’s course after two years of voluntary work and short term contracts, finally figuring out what I wanted to do and swearing that I wouldn’t fall in to the same trap next time.
As it turns out, that’s only well and good when the situation is within your control.
You would think, after school, college, an undergraduate degree and finally a Masters, that the art of studying and preparedness would have been honed down to a finely chiselled point. I always presumed that Masters students were the cooler kids of the academic hierarchy, the ones who wear all black and huddle together to smoke those really thin cigarettes and talk in depth about politics and literature and social injustice and knew what they were talking about. They were experts in their fields. They had it together.
Or so I thought, until I became one.