She's got it bad: How I got over being turned down by the Daily Mail, and why I'm not giving up on newspapers.

Evening folks. If you're feeling suicidal, it's probably a good idea to stop reading right now. Because I am counting my blessings and being annoyingly chirply.

It's been one hell of a four weeks. While on the Lancashire Evening Post on a work placement (which I really enjoyed - what a warm, fun bunch of people - damn the recruitment freeze, I would love to work there), I was invited to an interview at the Daily Mail for a traineeship. My first proper job interview, let alone on a newspaper.

Exciting times. I tried to prepare the best I could, reading the publication from cover to cover and making notes on major themes, concerns and campaigns. But working all day, living away from home (which I'm not used to - yes, I am cossetted), and then trying to prepare for such a big interview wasn't easy. I think I could have prepared more effectively had I had a little more time.

For example, although I read the paper diligently, I failed to research in any great depth the history of the publication, or make a comprehensive list of 'Who's who' in the world of the Mail. These things seem so obvious now, but at the time everything seemed like such a whirlwind and before I knew it, it was the day of my interview.

This in itself was an insane 24 hours. By this time, I was on placement at the Liverpool Daily Post and Echo. So I had one day there, (I stayed at my cousin's just outside Liverpool), had to travel to London and back in one day, and during this time experienced every emotion from sheer panic to giddy excitement. It was surreal, and to be honest I didn't really know what had hit me.

The interview? Well, I didn't get the job, I may as well tell you that now. But I don't think it's because I interviewed particularly badly. They seemed (fairly) impressed with the answers I gave. But I also had to do a general knowledge test, in which I got some pretty fundamental questions wrong. For example, 'Who is the editor of the Mail on Sunday?'

Ladies and gentleman, it just hadn't crossed my mind to look this up. This shows my inexperience, and I definitely now feel more equipped in preparing for a newspaper interview. KNOW YOUR PRODUCT! Don't just read it, but read ABOUT it. The history, past players and so on. Absorb yourself in it. I was only half immersed.

In my haste and chaotic lifestyle in the weeks leading up to my interview, I should have made a simple list of who writes what on what day of the paper, and learnt it. But I didn't - I just expected that reading the paper every day would be sufficient, and that cramming information into my brain would work.

Anyway, friends were very kind and assured me that if I didn't get the job, it wouldn't be because of my poor score on the general knowledge test. Well, I don't know if it was because of that or not. I probably should ask for feedback but I'm not ready to do that just yet. The point is, I'm quite relieved the whole thing's over because it gave me a valuable learning curve (yet another one - boy, they're character building, I'll be down the mines next) and made me reflect on the direction my professional life is taking.

Is this really what I want, I thought to myself as tears streamed down my face while I was trying to find my way back to Euston. I'm obviously so stupid, I'll never be good enough for the nationals...blah blah blah. I realised, once out of the cosy confines of my Preston classroom, that the world of newspapers really is tough. To know that is one thing. But it's another thing being in an interview, and the interviewers asking you why you don't know the answer to something simple - and having nothing to say for yourself.

For a few days I was a bit deflated. It's easy when you've secured an interview for something massive like that to be a bit complacent in your research. I was stupid to be like that, but I won't do it again.

Now I'm applying for other jobs. It's tough. There's nothing out there. No newspaper groups are recruiting as far as I can see, and training schemes are even being cancelled in some cases. It's so easy to throw the towel in. Glossy PR jobs beckon seductively, and people keep asking me what my 'Plan B' is.

The answer is: I haven't got one.

I love newspapers: nationals, regionals, dailies or weeklies. They are my Plans A, B and C. It's sad but true: they are my personal life, and I eat, sleep and breathe them. They take up a substantial portion of my life - reading them, thinking about them, talking about them with my dad (an ex hack) and my mum, for that matter (she met my dad when she worked in advertising on the same paper).

So you see, it's a big part of our household and family life, and although I am as scared as anyone else about what the future holds (or doesn't, it would seem), I am not giving up. This is a love affair we're talking about, and I ain't walking out just yet.

It drives me mad, and on paper (no pun intended) there's a lot to moan about as a trainee reporter. The hours, the pay, the stress, the general madness of it all. It's fiercely competitive, and if you're not good enough then you know about it pretty quickly.

Except - there is nothing else I was put on this earth to do. Yes, that is an extremely wanky thing to say, but it's the truth. I love the back ache I get from being hunched over a computer pinning a complicated event down to a snappy, 20-word intro. I love searching for stories - it's terrifying when you can't find one, but when you dig a little deeper and find something good, it's a high second to none.

I love finding out how far I can push my sleep deprived body using caffeine, Red Bull and pure adrenaline to get the next twist on the story, the killer quote, the picture that says a thousand words. I don't care what hours I do - if I'm onto a story, I stay until it gets done. I can quite easily understand why they say reporters shouldn't marry.

I cherish my finger bunions from scribbling shorthand. I have pieces of paper pinned up all over the house written in Teeline, a non verbal 'tee hee' to anyone who looks at them because it's the language of newspapers, and they can't read it.

I feel strangely at home in a newsroom. The more shouting, hair tearing and demands for stories 'NOW' there are, the more I realise: I have the bug. I want to be the one who unfurls the editor's brow, I want to be the kid who gets the scoop because I was that bit more persistent - I want to get there, and I believe that I will one day. Recession or not.

I refuse to stop believing. For my next interview, whenever and wherever that may be, I know what I've got to do.

I realise that after my Mail interview, I was whining and making excuses about why it didn't go as well as I'd hoped. I've since given myself a good talking to. There's no room for whingers in this job. You accept responsibility for your actions, pick yourself up, dust yourself down and go for the next challenge. No time for feeling sorry for myself.

It was hard to embrace this philosophy a couple of weeks ago, but ironically, it's that no-nonsense part of the job that I love so much: it's tough, and you need the hide of a rhino to survive. I'm proud of myself for bouncing back from rejection. I will learn from it, and be even stronger for the next obstacle.

Bring it on, says I.