The battle of the micropipette Vs the pen

[It occupied about a third of a page on an 8’ by 11’ magazine....a spectacular fourteen lines.....I still remember it vividly…...like any other ten year old, the toll of exams was probably the heaviest thing on my mind....so that's what my maiden limerick was about......the chill that ran down my spine wasn't a reaction to the subject of my article....rather, it was the immense feeling of pleasure that comes with seeing your name printed clearly in black and white as opposed to the barely decipherable squiggle you can manage on your own].

For as long as I can remember, I have been an ardent fan of the tabloid. I think it began at an age where I transitioned from the colorful set of building blocks to the equally vibrant world of newsmagazines. Wide eyed awe at sensational pictures soon lead to a scrap book of interesting bits and pieces; I prefer to use the euphemism, "collecting news", as behooves the nature of this essay. When I turned my attention to the accompanying text, however, I became a full-fledged editor at age 8, for striking out lines that do not appeal sure qualifies as "editing" in every sense of the word! Two years down the road, I took up pen and paper. Be it the dissonant array of words I called poetry in my elementary school years or the pen portraits of high school teachers that decorated my lecture notes, writing became an incurable passion.

When I became the unanimous class elect for essay contests, I progressed to graver topics than exams and teachers---if only for the reason that academic contests prefer to follow politically correct decorum. Soon came phases of being reporter, feature-writer, columnist, critic and editor-in-chief for the college newsletter. That’s when I finally outgrew the conventional writing pad and overcame techno-phobia to play with Microsoft Word and Acrobat Distiller. It was with some reluctance that I began to accept that Word Art did justice to my calligraphy and Paint Shop enhanced the appearance of my sketchy cartoons.

My obsession with writing, however, did not take away from the strong inclination I had towards research in the science of the living world. My fascination and bafflement with Nature’s myriad strategies, her intricacies and nuances were too strong to be tossed to one side. When came the stage of choosing the right road and I walked into the School of Lifesciences, it was not a case of wrong choices. Rather it was the self confidence of a person that had lived and breathed journalism all her life. Where I needed training in biology, I believed strongly that I could walk into a newspaper office and do just as well as anybody.

My fascination for the fourth estate has oft found me racing through dense, canopied forests or visiting horrendous crime scenes --– the best school could not conjure up the kind of laboratory I have had for journalism ---from the spine-tingling pages of paperbacks by day to elaborately fabricated dreams by night! As I have learnt most of life’s lessons from books and the celluloid, the likes of All the President’s Men and The Evening News taught me that the clanging of the teletype was music to my ears. (Little wonder then that Beethoven and the Beatles still fail to impress me!)

If my penchant for writing determined the choice of my dream profession, the general belief that journalists are not nice human beings only served to reinforce it. Yes, mortal that I am, I’d like to believe that the many facets of my character (often unappreciated in real life ;)) would probably be god-sent to a wannabe scribe. One essential attribute to my persona is a brutal forthrightness that leaves no room for shades of gray. Newsprint journalism with its promise of black and white thus has to be much more than just an interesting proposition! While I have found it easier to pen my thoughts during particularly difficult moments in life than shedding tears, the end-result is usually an emotive poignant piece proving merely that the pen is an easier vent to my emotions than the lachrymals.

The most defining trait of my character is also probably one that is of utmost importance to a journalist ---an undying thirst for thrill, excitement and danger and the willingness to pay a price for it. At every stage in life, I have felt a profound feeling of vehemence, an inexplicable and incessant need to live life on the edge. Contemplating over my choice of careers, I have felt that both my greatest interests in life have stemmed from this very search for a sense of disquiet. While journalism is an embodiment of it, research is a subtler portrayal; every novel discovery in the lab is an adventure in itself---a skirmish with the unknown and the mystical.

My first attempted foray into journalism came just a couple years into graduate school when I decided I was going the alma-mater route and defy my original dream of breaking into the fourth estate the ‘unconventional’ way (read: write a deep-throat-grade story on an internship and fly away with a pulitzer :) )…For what that was worth, I did get accepted into all the journalism programs I applied to but the twin determinants of fate and fortune wouldn’t allow it. Turns out, the NIH doesn’t fund you to be a journalist, neither do the Reuters. The fact that I was a fresh immigrant to the country with a bad credit history didn't help either. So, accompanied with four acceptance letters more for promise than comfort I moved to Colorado to continue to patronize the micropipette.

The second was when I began moonlighting for my campus newsletter --- spreading the gospel of scientific research (pardon the oxy-moron) to lay public on campus came easily to a person that had spent years trying to convey her fascination for the workings of the human brain to disinterested technocrats. Much too easily, it seemed when I started giving the 20$-a-month job more importance than the one that paid 2k. Moreover, moonlighting wasn't exactly my forte; let's face it, I have hardly been able to hide my emotions, much less a job under the table. And when my already flailing science began to take a beating, I knew I had to give up the pen for a while longer.

Back to 24/7 commitment to science without passion, I made my next big decision: quit the PhD --- a task already long overdue. It wasn't hard to convince my boss that my relations with science were not exactly dandy; my work spoke for itself. Through the after-effects of a broken ankle and an even more shattered faith in practical biology, I managed to graduate with a Masters. My job-hunt followed the usual process of grade A, grade B and grade C; namely, journalism, science writing and good-old-faithful science.

That paved the way to my next 'dangerous' decision. After being all-set for what would be a fascinating career to most (another two years of struggling with emotions at the bench for me) in New York, I decided to take a risk and fly to Colorado to interview with a company for a technical communications position --- the same sunny state I had fled in a hurry less than two months ago. After getting through three high-wired interviews, all inclusive of an intensive technical one, they called to say they were extending the selection process to one more on-site meeting. Drill me on technical issues and I could come out on top, but if they were going to call upon my charm (or lack thereof) -- or the requirement of a non-immigrant visa for that matter-- I guessed I was pretty much done. Moreover, a communications position probably preferred an American who can say her can'ts right ;). My suspicions came true when after nearly three weeks of nerve-racking, I got the dreaded "unfortunately...." call. So, went the story of my first "i-really-want-that" job interview.

So, what's in store for me next? I'm quite sure a 'micropipette job' is around the corner and I know I'll sleep easier knowing I tried. And my love for writing hasn't diminished a tad (don't 1000-odd words speak volumes!).

Oscar Wilde once said, "The difference between Literature and Journalism is that Journalism is unreadable and Literature is not read". Hopefully, one day, I will be able to refute my favorite short story writer, help reverse the former and justify the latter….