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| Adventuring rule # 22: Keep copies of these. Maybe frame them. |
In my journalism class at Lodi High, we had various newspaper people from the community come to talk to us about working in print media. One I remember clearly is Keith Reid. At the time, he was a reporter for the Stockton Record, the newspaper for the next town over. I don't remember much of what he said, only that he rarely smiled, had a subtle slouch and wore very heavy looking brown leather shoes. While he spoke, I got the impression that he didn't enjoy his job much.
Perhaps he was particularly good at it or had years of experience behind him, and that was the reason he was taking up valuable class time we could have spent working on the current issue. In any case, what he said didn't amount to much in my 15 year old mind.
He said nothing of the glee sparked by an unexpected chance. He said nothing of the exhilaration of working under deadline. He said nothing of the nerves that arise and must be tamped down when calling sources. He said nothing of the satisfaction of sending a story to one's editor. He said nothing of the frustration and challenge of answering that editor's picky questions and comments.
He said nothing of the pride one feels seeing the result of hours of work printed in a real newspaper with one's name at the top. He said nothing of being unable to sleep because the possibilities of the story and how it could otherwise been told are running freely in the writer's tired mind. I've put in my hours at student newspapers, but it feels so much more real at a professional paper.
Because this man said nothing of these emotions, I was unprepared for the events of last Thursday night.
It was my second day as a part time copy editor for the Lodi News-Sentinel. I was called into the editor's office feeling as though I was headed to the principal. He asked me if I had done much reporting and I told him I had. He then offered me a story: a breaking news situation was cropping up on the local news outlets and all the normal reporters were at the Farmers Market beer garden. Yes, I said. Yes, I will write it. He sent me off with a few links for leads and some police numbers to call, expecting about four to six inches of story in return.
Fast forward about five hours and I was putting the finishing touches on what had become a 20 inch article. I can see those of you from the STAR shaking your heads at me. It was not my fault, I promise you. The subject of the article was running from police when I got the lead and had been arrested by the time I got a cop on the phone. This gave me more resources and story to tell, which was great fun. To give the story a Lodi connection, the sports editor added a few inches of information on the subject's background in football.
This is what showed up on the front page the next morning, in the newspaper I have read off and on for my entire life and interned for last summer, to my mother's utter delight.
Since I'm on the verge of straight up boasting anyway, this was in the Bohemian this week, and I got paid for it as a freelancer. As half of my senior project, I am immensely gratified that it ran in the paper where I spent the remainder of my internship hours.
And hey, we're already here, so this is the rest of the project as published on Popmatters (which was routinely misheard as POT-matters, to much laughter and concern). No paycheck, but a good experience.
Huh. Does this make me an official published writer, if not yet a full time professional one? Cool.
I may be living at my parents's house, driving my dad's truck to work and hoping for a Skype date as the best option to see the boy this weekend, but this is living the dream, people. You have to start somewhere.
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