Cheesy Rom-Coms and the Supposed Whimsy of Becoming a Writer
If cheesy 2000s rom-coms taught us anything besides the supposed ‘magic’ of a rainstorm or an airport departure (by far the least troubling aspects of Love Actually), it’s that a career in writing is one of whimsy, romance, and a complete lack of actual work.
When I enrolled into a journalism degree in 2018, I did so on the shoulders of the fictional writer giants who came before me; those rom-com heroines whose office attire was impossibly chic and whose workloads seemed just as impossibly light.
The influence of these fluffy pen-wielding characters on my dream job was perhaps to be expected, since journalism was overwhelmingly the career path of choice for basically every protagonist in the 2000s rom-com.
Perhaps the most famous example of this archetype arrived in 2003, when Kate Hudson’s Andie Anderson — yes, that’s her actual name — penned advice columns in How To Lose A Guy in 10 Days, a film whose title coincidentally describes my recent track record on Tinder.
In this rom-com cinematic universe (which should arguably overthrow Marvel’s), Andie probably attended networking events with a seemingly endless list of her rom-com writer associates, like Jenna from 13 Going On 30, Iris from The Holiday, or the mother of all mothers that is Confessions of a Shopaholic’s Rebecca Bloomwood.
They might have bumped into Kevin from 27 Dresses, or listened to a seminar given by the archetype’s shining figurehead, Miranda Priestly. Somewhere across town, Carrie Bradshaw skipped the event altogether to purchase her eleven hundredth pair of shoes, with money she absolutely would not make from a measly one-column gig.
The desire to one day rub shoulders (or perhaps given the era, shoulder pads) with this very cohort is what drove me to my very first journalism lecture, with a glittery notebook and a doe-eyed innocence in tow. What happened next was about as predictable as the very enemies-to-lovers arcs that got me there in the first place.
In the spirit of Carrie Bradshaw, I simply couldn’t help but wonder: why is this profession so alluring to screenwriters and audiences alike?
Now four years into my journalism career, I can say with confidence that the field is not as fanciful as the tales of Miranda or Carrie would have me believe, and in the spirit of the latter columnist, I simply couldn’t help but wonder: how did I get here, and why is this profession so alluring to screenwriters and audiences alike?
I pose these same Bradshaw-ian conundrums to Dr. Christina Wilkins, a lecturer in film and creative writing at the University of Birmingham. According to Dr. Wilkins, journalist characters function mostly as a plot device, and the job itself — or at least our perception of it — is best suited to deliver the staple tropes of the genre.
While the chick flicks of the 90s focussed mostly on teens, as Dr. Wilkins explains, the turn of the century saw us “move away from the traditional sphere of the woman… with [journalists] operating as a hybrid character.”
“These women are within the working environment and defined by the parameters of the working day,” Dr. Wilkins says. “This gives structure to the character and produces a number of plot obstacles for dramatic tension.”
Indeed, it’s the very nature of Andie’s job, in which she’s tasked with researching Matthew McConaughey (side note, my own search history reads similarly), that enables that film’s all-important meet-cute. The same is true of Rebecca and Carrie, whose romantic storylines are both propelled by writing assignments that create the plot obstacles Dr. Wilkins speaks of.
Alongside its role as a plot driver, Dr. Wilkins says the job requirements of journalism often outline neat character arcs for rom-com protagonists. In most cases, an assignment sees our heroine approach a subject — and indeed life more broadly — “in a self-contained or selfish light,” Dr. Wilkins explains.
It’s why Andie is initially more concerned about getting the ‘best scoop’ for her story than she is about upsetting Matthew McConaughey (couldn’t be me). It’s also why Kevin in 27 Dresses is indifferent to the romance of his wedding articles, since he’s more interested in pursuing a career in ‘real’ journalism.
In these cases, Dr. Wilkins says it’s the unique requirements of the writing field — in which journalists presumably approach life “more scientifically” — that provide a starting point of selfishness or indifference, which inevitably allows room for character growth. “This is a classic rom-com obstacle,” Dr. Wilkins adds.
“Rom-coms are often about realisation, so it says a lot when characters initially think objectively, and then later encounter life more subjectively.” By the end of these films, and as a result of their jobs, these characters are “reminded that they need to step out of their comfort zones, and recognize how to empathize with others,” Dr. Wilkins says.
It’s with these insights that I now realize my mistake in pursuing journalism because of rom-coms; that life is simply not a movie. That, while as stylish as my on screen inspirations, I am not a script device concocted by the whims of Nancy Meyers or Nora Ephron. And that, unlike my own career, these characters are driven not by the next paycheck or too much caffeine, but simply by their genre’s need to package life’s messiness in a pretty pink bow.
Granted, anyone with media literacy skills above the age of five could’ve told me this. Most of us know that — with the exception of your deserved taste in dreamy men — rom-coms should not form the basis of major life decisions. Perhaps it was my enduring quest to romanticize life that swept me up in these characters’ whimsies in the first place.
But it’s only after digesting Dr. Wilkins’ less glamorized, more critical analyses, and encountering the actual realities of the field, that I am able to view the rom-com journalist for what she so often is; pure Hollywood schmaltz.
“In the real world, Andie’s editor would never allocate an entire month to write a ‘How To’ article, and Miranda Priestly wouldn’t even consider an inexperienced applicant like Andrea — especially if she didn’t know the difference between blue and cerulean.”
This more discerning eye makes the silliness of these characters’ work lives seem especially glaring. In the real world, Andie’s editor would never allocate an entire month to write a ‘How To’ article, and no matter how hard it would be to deny a young Anne Hathaway, Miranda Priestly wouldn’t even consider an inexperienced applicant like Andrea — especially if she didn’t know the difference between blue and cerulean.
In perhaps the most egregious divorce from reality, Jenna of 13 Going On 30 orchestrates a total rebrand of Poise Magazine in complete defiance of budgets, core demos and executive approval. She is somewhat forgiven for serving instantly iconic looks (that chopstick hairdo will live on in rom-com canon), but she’s nonetheless partly responsible for a vision of journalism that simply doesn’t exist.
According to Dr. Wilkins, these realities are perhaps “too practical” for the realm of the rom-com, where career pursuits, by necessity of the genre, come secondary to romantic ones. Indeed, watching Rebecca toil away at a keyboard is far less interesting than her kissing Hugh Dancey as CGI mannequins applaud from afar.
In these whimsies, it makes sense for deadlines to go unmet and for payments to be unrealistically handsome, since rom-coms operate on the suspension of disbelief. While I bear some responsibility for this suspension within my own career, the aspirational allure of rom-coms is powerful enough that it isn’t entirely my fault.
“Rom-coms are uplifting,” Dr. Wilkins explains. “When a film elicits this feeling, it creates a link between the way in which the characters are shaped and renders them aspirational, including their professions.”
Indeed, with the exception of the life-ruining 500 Days of Summer (which might actually be a horror film), rom-coms are built on aspirational ideals and happily ever afters. Upon reflection, it was my own rose-coloured glasses that made me ideal bait for the wish-fulfilling prophecies of rom-com journalists.
All of this is not to say that my career is devoid of whimsy. Sometimes, with a coffee on my desk and when the words are flowing just right, I can almost envision myself lounging in Carrie’s unattainable NYC apartment or traipsing the halls of Runway Magazine.
As Dr. Wilkins says, it can be fun to live, even briefly, in these fairylands; where airports and rainstorms aren’t a nuisance but a pleasure, and life’s challenges can be fixed simply by an 80s chart-topper. It’s nice to revel in these fantasies when they arise, but even the most wishful of thinkers should keep their high-heeled and pedicured feet planted firmly in reality.
“Not everything you see on screen is real,” Dr. Wilkins reminds me, “remember they have to make it entertaining for the viewer.” So, as romance novels enjoy a resurgence in popularity and Sydney Sweeney ushers in what’s sure to be a rom-com box office revival, hold with you that vicarious Bradshaw-ian spirit.
But remember that the lessons of Andie and her ilk should be confined only to your next office outfit, not your next career move.