I've spent the past two days cleaning out my apartment and getting ready for the big move back to Dallas.
For those of you still unaware, I've been fortunate enough to land a copywriting/contributing editor position for a company and its two magazines in Dallas. It's a job that seemed to come solely as a stroke of luck (thank you, Journalism Gods!).
In the midst of it all, I ran across an old folder that contains nearly every piece of great journalism I've read and a lot of the stuff from my very early days. I found the letter that initially helped spark my interest into actually pursuing an education and career in the evil journalism field. It came from a former professor of mine, Bill Lodge, who had spent 26 years at The Dallas Morning News before he accepted a buyout package when The News was in a period of serious layoffs.
Bill was an adjunct professor at North Lake College for two years, I believe, before he moved to Louisiana for a job at The Baton Rouge Advocate. Even today, I fully credit him as the one who got me in this business. He remains one of my dearest friends and my strongest mentor to this day.
This is the email Bill sent me in the summer of 2007 right after I had completed my Intro to Mass Comm class that spring semester. I had planned on the spring semester being my last semester at North Lake and I was well on my way out the door to Sam Houston State where I figured I might follow the journalism path. I had an apartment ready to go and classes picked for the fall semester.
But Bill changed all that.
"Good Young People,
I hope to recruit each of you to my Journalism 2311 class this fall at North Lake College. This is a news-gathering and news-writing course, and I believe each of you would do well in it. I also believe you would enjoy the course because 90 percent of your grade would be eight articles you would write for the campus newspaper over the course of four months. You could write more if you wish, but the requirement is two per month. Often, these stories need not to be more than 350 words. If you wished, though, you would be allowed to write more than that in some cases.
In this course, you would learn how to write for a news publication, gather information, interview subjects, locate records. Some days, you would have classroom instruction. Other days, you would be free to work on your stories at the newspaper office, Room A-260. On several occasions, you would be visited in class by people who work for The Dallas Morning News, The Dallas Business Journal, and, I hope, area television stations and alternative weeklies.
You would know your editor for all of your campus news stories. That would be me. Three of you have taken my mass communications class. I know each of you would do well in Journalism 2311, which will be taught M-W-F from 1:30 p.m. to 2:20 p.m. Even if you decide not to begin a career in journalism, this course still would help you with writing in other disciplines.
A couple of you have extensive experience writing for college newspapers. I believe both of you would enjoy the course, learn much from talking with the professionals who visit our class and have fun with the stories you would write for the News-Register.
If you're planning a career in communications or simply looking for an interesting elective, I hope you'll consider this class. At any rate, I wish you all good luck with whatever path you choose. I have enjoyed talking with each of you in the past."
I can't say what it was about the email that exactly made me decide to stay and cancel my plans for Sam Houston. It's definitely not the best pitch to get an out-the-door college student with other plans to remain at a community college for another year, but it worked.
I do think, though, that a big part of it was that it was so sincere and that Bill was genuinely writing that he wanted us to stay and help us get better, and it wasn't just a pitch so that he could have more numbers in his JOUR 2311 class––which I now know wasn't the case because the class ended up being a total of three people by the end of the semester.
If Bill hadn't sent that email, I would have transferred to Sam Houston and who knows how my career would have turned out. Maybe I would have still ended up in the same places with the same opportunities, but almost surely not. I'd almost be willing to bet that I'd still be stuck in a frustrating restaurant job, still in college, trying to figure out what the hell I wanted to do with my life. But Bill prevented all that with his short, 358-word letter.
And for that I'll always be grateful.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Dear Tiger Woods
[Ed. note: This is the transcribed message left on Tiger Woods' answering machine at 3:32 a.m. on July 21.]
Hey, Tiger,
It's your loyal fans here. Sorry to be calling so late, but we haven't been able to sleep. We've been thinking a lot lately and things just aren't the same as they've been for the past 15 years. And frankly, we are fed up with your shit.
The past year and a half has been like a bad relationship to us: you've promised that you were going to change, saying that you got away from your roots and teachings and that it's time to get back to your true self. We listened as you lied, promising that you would make a comeback and all would be OK.
And we took the bait. We wanted to believe.
We know that what you've gone through the past year and a half has been rough––you were caught in a major cheating scandal, lost your wife, your swing coach bolted, some of your major endorsement deals were dropped, Nike cut a big chunk of its deal, your career is in shambles and you can't stay healthy. But to add to the whirlwind, you split with the one person who could arguably be one of the last saving graces for your career, your caddy, Stevie Williams.
We were skeptical when Williams first took the bag of Adam Scott in this year's U.S. Open, of course, but we tried to write it off as you weren't playing and Williams just wanted to caddy. And, yeah, so what Williams grabbed Scott's bag again at the British Open, big deal, right?! You weren't there either, so it was OK, although the fear in the back of our minds told us otherwise.
But now you pull this shit of dumping Stevie, citing another "change" when all the others have obviously worked out so well. Cut the bullshit, Tiger, we know it's just another pawn move in your drastic downfall.
*Sighs*
So go on and keep telling yourself all is well in Tigerland, where you are truly getting back to yourself and that once your knee and achilles heals and your swing changes take effect and you find a new caddy and another great swing coach that you'll be back to the prominent force you once were.
But us fans, we are calling your bluff, we're sick of the abuse.
*Click*
Hey, Tiger,
It's your loyal fans here. Sorry to be calling so late, but we haven't been able to sleep. We've been thinking a lot lately and things just aren't the same as they've been for the past 15 years. And frankly, we are fed up with your shit.
The past year and a half has been like a bad relationship to us: you've promised that you were going to change, saying that you got away from your roots and teachings and that it's time to get back to your true self. We listened as you lied, promising that you would make a comeback and all would be OK.
And we took the bait. We wanted to believe.
We know that what you've gone through the past year and a half has been rough––you were caught in a major cheating scandal, lost your wife, your swing coach bolted, some of your major endorsement deals were dropped, Nike cut a big chunk of its deal, your career is in shambles and you can't stay healthy. But to add to the whirlwind, you split with the one person who could arguably be one of the last saving graces for your career, your caddy, Stevie Williams.
We were skeptical when Williams first took the bag of Adam Scott in this year's U.S. Open, of course, but we tried to write it off as you weren't playing and Williams just wanted to caddy. And, yeah, so what Williams grabbed Scott's bag again at the British Open, big deal, right?! You weren't there either, so it was OK, although the fear in the back of our minds told us otherwise.
But now you pull this shit of dumping Stevie, citing another "change" when all the others have obviously worked out so well. Cut the bullshit, Tiger, we know it's just another pawn move in your drastic downfall.
*Sighs*
So go on and keep telling yourself all is well in Tigerland, where you are truly getting back to yourself and that once your knee and achilles heals and your swing changes take effect and you find a new caddy and another great swing coach that you'll be back to the prominent force you once were.
But us fans, we are calling your bluff, we're sick of the abuse.
*Click*
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
My (not-so-major) discovery
Surely I'm not the last person on earth to have heard of Mumford & Sons.
Surely, in the heart of Africa, there's a tribe hidden in the depths of the jungle that the tune of "Little Lion Man" has yet to reach.
But I'm not so sure.
It wasn't until a few days ago that I stumbled across the likes of Mumford & Sons, almost solely by mistake. I'm a bit ashamed of myself, honestly. How is it that this band that's been around since December 2007 has yet to fill my iPod with all its glory and greatness? I wish I had an answer.
Surely there must be some mistake, I assumed. I tend to think I keep a close ear to the new music coming out on a fairly consistent basis and at least have an idea of who the new talent is. So when I heard "Little Lion Man" the first time from this band I've never heard of, I was sure that I had found the next big thing that, what I thought, only a select group of people had heard. The song took me back to middle school and to my first relationship when I didn't ask my girlfriend to the school dance, which turned out to be a deal breaker. I was crushed.
"Weep for yourself, my man, you'll never be what is in your heart. Weep Little Lion Man, you're not as brave as you were at the start."
"But it was not your fault but mine, and it was your heart on the line. I really fucked it up this time, didn't I, my dear?"
My inner 12-year-old was tucked up in his room again, heartbroken, swearing to never leave and to never love again. I took straight to YouTube to find this little showcase of talent and see what other greatness it brought to the table. What I found I can't say I was entirely happy with. "Little Lion Man" had more than 24 million views. Other songs, "Awake My Soul," "Thistle and Weeds," "The Cave," all peaked in the upward hundred of thousand views.
I was irked with my total obliviousness to this band. Why hadn't any of my friends sent Mumford & Sons my way? Why hadn't, through the course of the many YouTube videos, did a recommendation for this band not present itself? I wanted to hate myself. I wanted to hate this band for alluding me for so many years. But I couldn't. The music that played through my speakers was so packed with emotion and feeling, and with each new song played came a small dose of nostalgia.
I was back at the dance I didn't ask my seventh-grade girlfriend to, sitting lonely at a table, silhouetted against the glass, watching as she danced with another boy.
Me and my inner heartbroken 12 year old are going to go listen to "Little Lion Man" again.
Surely, in the heart of Africa, there's a tribe hidden in the depths of the jungle that the tune of "Little Lion Man" has yet to reach.
But I'm not so sure.
It wasn't until a few days ago that I stumbled across the likes of Mumford & Sons, almost solely by mistake. I'm a bit ashamed of myself, honestly. How is it that this band that's been around since December 2007 has yet to fill my iPod with all its glory and greatness? I wish I had an answer.
Surely there must be some mistake, I assumed. I tend to think I keep a close ear to the new music coming out on a fairly consistent basis and at least have an idea of who the new talent is. So when I heard "Little Lion Man" the first time from this band I've never heard of, I was sure that I had found the next big thing that, what I thought, only a select group of people had heard. The song took me back to middle school and to my first relationship when I didn't ask my girlfriend to the school dance, which turned out to be a deal breaker. I was crushed.
"Weep for yourself, my man, you'll never be what is in your heart. Weep Little Lion Man, you're not as brave as you were at the start."
"But it was not your fault but mine, and it was your heart on the line. I really fucked it up this time, didn't I, my dear?"
My inner 12-year-old was tucked up in his room again, heartbroken, swearing to never leave and to never love again. I took straight to YouTube to find this little showcase of talent and see what other greatness it brought to the table. What I found I can't say I was entirely happy with. "Little Lion Man" had more than 24 million views. Other songs, "Awake My Soul," "Thistle and Weeds," "The Cave," all peaked in the upward hundred of thousand views.
I was irked with my total obliviousness to this band. Why hadn't any of my friends sent Mumford & Sons my way? Why hadn't, through the course of the many YouTube videos, did a recommendation for this band not present itself? I wanted to hate myself. I wanted to hate this band for alluding me for so many years. But I couldn't. The music that played through my speakers was so packed with emotion and feeling, and with each new song played came a small dose of nostalgia.
I was back at the dance I didn't ask my seventh-grade girlfriend to, sitting lonely at a table, silhouetted against the glass, watching as she danced with another boy.
Me and my inner heartbroken 12 year old are going to go listen to "Little Lion Man" again.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Design: NBA Finals
I was cleaning out my flash drive this morning when I came across a mock design I put together back in December. It was shortly after the Miami Heat beat the Chicago Bulls and the NBA Finals was set against the Dallas Mavericks and the Heat.
When I designed it I was still under the impression that there was no way the Mavs were going to put together four wins against the three-headed beast of the Heat, and I would have undoubtedly bet a year's pay that would have been the case. But looking back on it now, 2 of 3 of my headlines were hinting at a Mavs win (Big German promises revenge; LeBron scared of making it to the Finals). So, maybe that was my inner MFFL that had been locked up for so many years trying to tell me these Mavs were the real deal.
Luckily I didn't make that bet.
Looking back on the design as a whole today, I'm still happy with how it turned out. It has a few errors in it or things I would like to change (See: Scoreboard in the Rangers-Yankees story; Lebron's mugshot; all the copy is one column; the Mavs-Heat preview box could be way cooler, something like a gradient with blue and red), but overall, it's pretty clean.
When I designed it I was still under the impression that there was no way the Mavs were going to put together four wins against the three-headed beast of the Heat, and I would have undoubtedly bet a year's pay that would have been the case. But looking back on it now, 2 of 3 of my headlines were hinting at a Mavs win (Big German promises revenge; LeBron scared of making it to the Finals). So, maybe that was my inner MFFL that had been locked up for so many years trying to tell me these Mavs were the real deal.
Luckily I didn't make that bet.
Looking back on the design as a whole today, I'm still happy with how it turned out. It has a few errors in it or things I would like to change (See: Scoreboard in the Rangers-Yankees story; Lebron's mugshot; all the copy is one column; the Mavs-Heat preview box could be way cooler, something like a gradient with blue and red), but overall, it's pretty clean.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Before Sun's Wake
This is just a small short story I've been working on. Critique as you please, if you so choose to do so.
Before Sun's Wake
It was the morning of July 14, a Tuesday, when the phenomenon first took place. It was a strange occurrence, unlike any morning any of the townsfolk had experienced before. The I-75, which is usually log jammed at 7:30 each morning, found its lanes bare, no car to be found.
Families, instead of racing out the door to get the kids to school, parents to work, laid in bed, relaxed; the children, rather than sitting and waiting for the morning school bell to ring, slept or raced for their TVs to see if weekday cartoons were as good as their weekend counterparts. But even the TV channels nestled in the peace, airing those colorful rainbow bars, as if to say, "Get away! Enjoy this! Welcome this occurrence."
It was a strange sight, to stare out a window and see the event being held. The morning birds that chirped their morning hymns from the rooftops and power lines kept silent; the neighborhood dogs, always barking at the children walking to school, didn't budge from their houses. Even the trash that littered the streets didn't dare move.
No one dared step outside their door and be the one to disturb the much welcomed peace. A stranger walking into town would believe all the townsfolk had planned this event. But it was all an act of nature which no one could understand. Some of the townsfolk panicked, unsure if the wrong step, a small peep or a slightly loud breath would disturb what was going on.
In the days that followed, the people of Lane resumed their busy schedules and acted as if the entire incident never happened, as if it were merely a collective dream by the townsfolk. It wasn't until the following Sunday when Pastor Lee of the town church spoke out about the phenomenon. He called it an act of God, telling us that God was trying to slow down our lives, and that we should take it as the first sign of his return. "There will be many more events to come," he said. "But we should not fear them."
Just day's after the pastor's sermon, the people had nearly forgotten all together that the strange event occurred. Mothers returned to scurrying the kids together and off to school before the morning bell, and fathers left before sun's wake to put in a full day's work. It was a process we had grown accustom to all our lives, and while the period of peace was welcomed, lives were to be lived and money to be made.
And then it happened again.
Exactly three months later, a peaceful (cloud) made its way over Lane once more. But the confusion from its first settling never came, and residents that panicked now welcomed its second coming. And still, no one dared to disturb the phenomenon or ask why it had blessed us a second time.
As the next day came and passed, whispers traveled through the town, and, amazingly, a changed shifted in the town. No longer were the residents of Lane in such a hurry. The I-75 was no longer a traffic-filled mess, mothers spent more time with their children, fathers, rather than out the door before the waking of the sun to put in a full day saw their children off to school and were home in time for ball games as the moon overtook the sun. Although there were two more events in the following weeks, the town started to become more at peace on its own without the help of the phenomenon.
After each passing, the word spread of the town's peace and we realized the town's population was slowly on the rise. Out-of-towners of all ages, race and sex, looking to find the peace we had all come to love, arrived one by one, car by car, filling house by house.
And so the town grew, and the peace was shared. But with the increased population came shopping centers, restaurants and malls and supermarkets all looking to supply our town's increased demand.
With that, the peace was disturbed.
For the first time in nearly a year, the phenomenon returned. And the citizens who had experienced it countless times before were well away. But it was the town's new inhabitants that disturbed the peace; the ones who came to town looking for what we all cherished, but ignored it when it showed itself.
They packed the I-75 with their cars––horns blaring, blood boiling––racing to locations that only breed stress. Mothers screamed for children to leave for school, as fathers had already left before sun's wake. And so the peace that we had all come to love was destroyed.
And we have never heard from it again.
Before Sun's Wake
It was the morning of July 14, a Tuesday, when the phenomenon first took place. It was a strange occurrence, unlike any morning any of the townsfolk had experienced before. The I-75, which is usually log jammed at 7:30 each morning, found its lanes bare, no car to be found.
Families, instead of racing out the door to get the kids to school, parents to work, laid in bed, relaxed; the children, rather than sitting and waiting for the morning school bell to ring, slept or raced for their TVs to see if weekday cartoons were as good as their weekend counterparts. But even the TV channels nestled in the peace, airing those colorful rainbow bars, as if to say, "Get away! Enjoy this! Welcome this occurrence."
It was a strange sight, to stare out a window and see the event being held. The morning birds that chirped their morning hymns from the rooftops and power lines kept silent; the neighborhood dogs, always barking at the children walking to school, didn't budge from their houses. Even the trash that littered the streets didn't dare move.
No one dared step outside their door and be the one to disturb the much welcomed peace. A stranger walking into town would believe all the townsfolk had planned this event. But it was all an act of nature which no one could understand. Some of the townsfolk panicked, unsure if the wrong step, a small peep or a slightly loud breath would disturb what was going on.
In the days that followed, the people of Lane resumed their busy schedules and acted as if the entire incident never happened, as if it were merely a collective dream by the townsfolk. It wasn't until the following Sunday when Pastor Lee of the town church spoke out about the phenomenon. He called it an act of God, telling us that God was trying to slow down our lives, and that we should take it as the first sign of his return. "There will be many more events to come," he said. "But we should not fear them."
Just day's after the pastor's sermon, the people had nearly forgotten all together that the strange event occurred. Mothers returned to scurrying the kids together and off to school before the morning bell, and fathers left before sun's wake to put in a full day's work. It was a process we had grown accustom to all our lives, and while the period of peace was welcomed, lives were to be lived and money to be made.
And then it happened again.
Exactly three months later, a peaceful (cloud) made its way over Lane once more. But the confusion from its first settling never came, and residents that panicked now welcomed its second coming. And still, no one dared to disturb the phenomenon or ask why it had blessed us a second time.
As the next day came and passed, whispers traveled through the town, and, amazingly, a changed shifted in the town. No longer were the residents of Lane in such a hurry. The I-75 was no longer a traffic-filled mess, mothers spent more time with their children, fathers, rather than out the door before the waking of the sun to put in a full day saw their children off to school and were home in time for ball games as the moon overtook the sun. Although there were two more events in the following weeks, the town started to become more at peace on its own without the help of the phenomenon.
After each passing, the word spread of the town's peace and we realized the town's population was slowly on the rise. Out-of-towners of all ages, race and sex, looking to find the peace we had all come to love, arrived one by one, car by car, filling house by house.
And so the town grew, and the peace was shared. But with the increased population came shopping centers, restaurants and malls and supermarkets all looking to supply our town's increased demand.
With that, the peace was disturbed.
For the first time in nearly a year, the phenomenon returned. And the citizens who had experienced it countless times before were well away. But it was the town's new inhabitants that disturbed the peace; the ones who came to town looking for what we all cherished, but ignored it when it showed itself.
They packed the I-75 with their cars––horns blaring, blood boiling––racing to locations that only breed stress. Mothers screamed for children to leave for school, as fathers had already left before sun's wake. And so the peace that we had all come to love was destroyed.
And we have never heard from it again.
Monday, June 27, 2011
This is shameful
[Ed. note: I can't believe I'm about to show this. I'm must be mad-tits-crazy INSANE!]
It's been more than four years since I wrote and submitted my first-ever journalism assignment. It was March 2007 and I was 18, still a young what-the-hell-am-I-doing-with-my-life college student. I thought I had it all figured out the semester before. I was hooked on science and looking to be the next top-knotch CSI investigator, rivaling Gil Grissom. Only my plan didn't work out as hoped.
The 16-hours of semester-long science classes, spanning from 8 a.m.-5 p.m. everyday, took their toll; I knew that I wasn't cut out for chemical formulas, biology mumbo jumbo and the headache of all the labs. [Note: For a while there I thought I could get away with sleeping in my 8 a.m. chemistry class MWF, but my teacher was all against that. Every time a student tried to fall asleep, he'd slap his hand on a desk and yell "HELLOOOOOOOO! CAN YOU HEAR ME? AM I BORING YOU???" in his thick African accent. It was brutal, man.]
Fuck that. I left that faster than a crop-dusted beer fart.
So I spent the Christmas break trying to figure out what I enjoyed. I knew I always had writing in my blood, I had just never actually considered it as a career. As long as I remembered as a young Keyser, I loved to read the morning paper, specifically heading straight for the sports section––the most important section of all, I thought at the time. Psh, who needed front page news. Plus the semester before, as I was wasting away in the science building, feeling my soul slowly being eaten away by test tubes and beakers and other nonsense, I'd crossed the newsroom of the school's newspaper, the News-Register, quite often and always wondered, "What if?"
That next semester I took the plunge and signed up for my first journalism class and gave writing its well-deserved chance. Those first few weeks of class I nearly shit myself, and then once more when my professor, the great Bill Lodge who turned out to be my biggest and greatest mentor, handed me my first assignment: cover a spring symposium.
Wait! You want me to go sit in a room full of people, cover what happened, and then TALK to those people after it's all over. You people must be crazy!
By no means growing up was I a journalism junkie. Sure I read the sports pages often, but my knowledge of journalism never stretched past that. I never sat and broke down stories like I've heard other future writers doing. I had no idea what a lede was, a nut graf*, or the importance of quoting people.
[*Funny thing about nut grafs: Coming off a semester of nothing but science classes, my first thought of a nut graf was actually grafing a guy's family jewels. True story. I quickly found out that wasn't the case.]
I covered the event, wrote my story and turned it in, feeling as accomplished as I ever had in my 18 years. I knew I was hooked. Journalism sunk her dirty rotten teeth in me and there was no letting go. As soon as fall classes opened, I registered for every journalism class I could take. Then, to my surprise, I was offered to write a few stories for the summer issue.
Bill invited me in to the newsroom, handed me two stories and gave me the rundown of how the writing process goes: talk with a few sources and piece together 500 coherent words in beautifully crafted sentences.
The thought of walking up to a total stranger for a quote petrified me.
Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! You mean I have to go back out and talk to more people! What happened to my understanding that these stories just pieced themselves together?! You people really are crazy!
But to my surprise, I did it––shaky voice, hands and all––and my stories ran, both on the front page! Riding on Cloud 9, HA! The way I felt even Cloud 9 couldn't understand. Not only did I have three stories under my belt, but the smell of formaldehyde and failed science experiments had finally left my nostrils.
Now, here I am, four years later and doing this 'professionally.'**
[**I say 'professionally' because I get paid for a living to write by an actual newspaper, but I still don't feel like a professional yet; I have too much to learn.]
So, here it is, in its bad spelling, grammar, AP style and all.
[Ed. note: I'm sorry in advance.]
****
Spring Symposium Goes Political: The Politics of Gender*
[*I don't know what I was thinking here. But I assumed I should sent a title in with my story. Stupid me. Even as a headline this sucks.]
"We do this to raise discussion. Not to force beliefs on each other."
-Christan Amundsen*
[*I thought it would be a good idea to insert a quote here––later on did I figure out it's called a pull quote. For some reason, I thought all stories got one of these.]
On Wednesday March 21, 2007 North Lake held its annual Spring Symposium. Moderated by Christan Amundsen (Social Sciences-Psychology), along with seven panelists: Tiffany Anderson ( ), Paul Magee (Sociology), Amy Bacio (Government), Avis Rupert (English), Ivan Dole (Developmental Reading), and Marcos Arandia (Philosophy). The discussion topic: The Politics of Gender.*
[*This could quite possibly be the most God-awful lede written in the history of journalism. What the fuck was I thinking. The lede that ran is a helluva lot better than this (thanks, Bill).]
Before we can dive into this we must distinguish the difference between gender and sex. Gender is more of what feel inside, whether we feel male or female. Where a persons sex is physical, proving that we are either male or female. Ivan Dole gave two examples: "Women give birth to babies, men don't." "Girls are weak, boys are tough." The first being a sexual fact whereas the other could be considered as a bias gender statement. Now as the discussion grew, along did its audience. Topping somewhere close to 50-60 students. Numerous ideas arose as the panelist and students voiced their opinions. A major discussion was whether or not we as a society are ready for a female president. With Hilary Clinton stating she will run for Presidency in the upcoming 2008 election has struck controversy over the United States and over the students and faculty at North Lake. Paul Magee went on to say that "We guys are going to have to start learning how to say ma'am." Magee also threw around the phrase Madam President. Is he right? Do we as a society have to start accepting the fact that a female president will soon be inevitable? A quick show of hands proved that most of North Lake students would not vote for Hilary Clinton in the upcoming election, no matter the circumstances. Leading one student to say: "People are told not to like her. She shows no emotion. Whenever you see her on T.V. her face is a stone. At least let us see your smile Hilary." Yet doesn't her being a woman open her to more criticism? Does showing emotion make her weak? And don't we hold higher standards since she is a woman, especially if she is to win office?
[*I don't think there is one thing right with this entire paragraph. Not only is it well above the 70-word limit that most newspapers follow, but holy shit talk about editorialized. I should have just quit before I even wrote this.]
Look at society today, are we not criticizing the president now for lying to us about the war in Iraq? One student feels that Hilary could potentially make a good president. Stating that she was there while Bill was in office, and now we look at Bill as being a good president.
Couldn't she of learned a few things while Bill was in office? Or what about the possibility she was running the country while we thought Bill was the one. It wasn't just Hilary who ran the whole discussion; the topic of religion in politics arose. Should politicians' religious
views determine whether they get elected to office? Should they run office based on their religious views? Magee stood firm as he said "It doesn't matter a politicians faith as long as they can run the government! When you're about to go in for open heart surgery you aren't going to ask how often do you go to church? You're going to ask how many times you done this, and how many deaths?" One student went on to say "I feel along with many others that religion and politics do not mix. But how is it possible to take the religion out of politics? When a senator makes a vote on a bill, isn't somewhere deep down their religious views helping with that decision?"
No matter the topic, the Symposium is a great way to gather students and have them voice their opinions over events going on in the world today. Whether you are able to catch five minutes before class or stay the whole time. Stop by, stir up your beliefs, and see what your fellow students feel. As Amundsen put it "We do this to raise discussion, not to force beliefs upon each other."*
[*I think the only right thing I did in this entire article was actually end it on a decent quote. The sentences leading up to the quote are terrible, but the quote isn't awful.]
****
It's been more than four years since I wrote and submitted my first-ever journalism assignment. It was March 2007 and I was 18, still a young what-the-hell-am-I-doing-with-my-life college student. I thought I had it all figured out the semester before. I was hooked on science and looking to be the next top-knotch CSI investigator, rivaling Gil Grissom. Only my plan didn't work out as hoped.
The 16-hours of semester-long science classes, spanning from 8 a.m.-5 p.m. everyday, took their toll; I knew that I wasn't cut out for chemical formulas, biology mumbo jumbo and the headache of all the labs. [Note: For a while there I thought I could get away with sleeping in my 8 a.m. chemistry class MWF, but my teacher was all against that. Every time a student tried to fall asleep, he'd slap his hand on a desk and yell "HELLOOOOOOOO! CAN YOU HEAR ME? AM I BORING YOU???" in his thick African accent. It was brutal, man.]
Fuck that. I left that faster than a crop-dusted beer fart.
So I spent the Christmas break trying to figure out what I enjoyed. I knew I always had writing in my blood, I had just never actually considered it as a career. As long as I remembered as a young Keyser, I loved to read the morning paper, specifically heading straight for the sports section––the most important section of all, I thought at the time. Psh, who needed front page news. Plus the semester before, as I was wasting away in the science building, feeling my soul slowly being eaten away by test tubes and beakers and other nonsense, I'd crossed the newsroom of the school's newspaper, the News-Register, quite often and always wondered, "What if?"
That next semester I took the plunge and signed up for my first journalism class and gave writing its well-deserved chance. Those first few weeks of class I nearly shit myself, and then once more when my professor, the great Bill Lodge who turned out to be my biggest and greatest mentor, handed me my first assignment: cover a spring symposium.
Wait! You want me to go sit in a room full of people, cover what happened, and then TALK to those people after it's all over. You people must be crazy!
By no means growing up was I a journalism junkie. Sure I read the sports pages often, but my knowledge of journalism never stretched past that. I never sat and broke down stories like I've heard other future writers doing. I had no idea what a lede was, a nut graf*, or the importance of quoting people.
[*Funny thing about nut grafs: Coming off a semester of nothing but science classes, my first thought of a nut graf was actually grafing a guy's family jewels. True story. I quickly found out that wasn't the case.]
I covered the event, wrote my story and turned it in, feeling as accomplished as I ever had in my 18 years. I knew I was hooked. Journalism sunk her dirty rotten teeth in me and there was no letting go. As soon as fall classes opened, I registered for every journalism class I could take. Then, to my surprise, I was offered to write a few stories for the summer issue.
Bill invited me in to the newsroom, handed me two stories and gave me the rundown of how the writing process goes: talk with a few sources and piece together 500 coherent words in beautifully crafted sentences.
The thought of walking up to a total stranger for a quote petrified me.
Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! You mean I have to go back out and talk to more people! What happened to my understanding that these stories just pieced themselves together?! You people really are crazy!
But to my surprise, I did it––shaky voice, hands and all––and my stories ran, both on the front page! Riding on Cloud 9, HA! The way I felt even Cloud 9 couldn't understand. Not only did I have three stories under my belt, but the smell of formaldehyde and failed science experiments had finally left my nostrils.
Now, here I am, four years later and doing this 'professionally.'**
[**I say 'professionally' because I get paid for a living to write by an actual newspaper, but I still don't feel like a professional yet; I have too much to learn.]
So, here it is, in its bad spelling, grammar, AP style and all.
[Ed. note: I'm sorry in advance.]
****
Spring Symposium Goes Political: The Politics of Gender*
[*I don't know what I was thinking here. But I assumed I should sent a title in with my story. Stupid me. Even as a headline this sucks.]
"We do this to raise discussion. Not to force beliefs on each other."
-Christan Amundsen*
[*I thought it would be a good idea to insert a quote here––later on did I figure out it's called a pull quote. For some reason, I thought all stories got one of these.]
On Wednesday March 21, 2007 North Lake held its annual Spring Symposium. Moderated by Christan Amundsen (Social Sciences-Psychology), along with seven panelists: Tiffany Anderson ( ), Paul Magee (Sociology), Amy Bacio (Government), Avis Rupert (English), Ivan Dole (Developmental Reading), and Marcos Arandia (Philosophy). The discussion topic: The Politics of Gender.*
[*This could quite possibly be the most God-awful lede written in the history of journalism. What the fuck was I thinking. The lede that ran is a helluva lot better than this (thanks, Bill).]
Before we can dive into this we must distinguish the difference between gender and sex. Gender is more of what feel inside, whether we feel male or female. Where a persons sex is physical, proving that we are either male or female. Ivan Dole gave two examples: "Women give birth to babies, men don't." "Girls are weak, boys are tough." The first being a sexual fact whereas the other could be considered as a bias gender statement. Now as the discussion grew, along did its audience. Topping somewhere close to 50-60 students. Numerous ideas arose as the panelist and students voiced their opinions. A major discussion was whether or not we as a society are ready for a female president. With Hilary Clinton stating she will run for Presidency in the upcoming 2008 election has struck controversy over the United States and over the students and faculty at North Lake. Paul Magee went on to say that "We guys are going to have to start learning how to say ma'am." Magee also threw around the phrase Madam President. Is he right? Do we as a society have to start accepting the fact that a female president will soon be inevitable? A quick show of hands proved that most of North Lake students would not vote for Hilary Clinton in the upcoming election, no matter the circumstances. Leading one student to say: "People are told not to like her. She shows no emotion. Whenever you see her on T.V. her face is a stone. At least let us see your smile Hilary." Yet doesn't her being a woman open her to more criticism? Does showing emotion make her weak? And don't we hold higher standards since she is a woman, especially if she is to win office?
[*I don't think there is one thing right with this entire paragraph. Not only is it well above the 70-word limit that most newspapers follow, but holy shit talk about editorialized. I should have just quit before I even wrote this.]
Look at society today, are we not criticizing the president now for lying to us about the war in Iraq? One student feels that Hilary could potentially make a good president. Stating that she was there while Bill was in office, and now we look at Bill as being a good president.
Couldn't she of learned a few things while Bill was in office? Or what about the possibility she was running the country while we thought Bill was the one. It wasn't just Hilary who ran the whole discussion; the topic of religion in politics arose. Should politicians' religious
views determine whether they get elected to office? Should they run office based on their religious views? Magee stood firm as he said "It doesn't matter a politicians faith as long as they can run the government! When you're about to go in for open heart surgery you aren't going to ask how often do you go to church? You're going to ask how many times you done this, and how many deaths?" One student went on to say "I feel along with many others that religion and politics do not mix. But how is it possible to take the religion out of politics? When a senator makes a vote on a bill, isn't somewhere deep down their religious views helping with that decision?"
No matter the topic, the Symposium is a great way to gather students and have them voice their opinions over events going on in the world today. Whether you are able to catch five minutes before class or stay the whole time. Stop by, stir up your beliefs, and see what your fellow students feel. As Amundsen put it "We do this to raise discussion, not to force beliefs upon each other."*
[*I think the only right thing I did in this entire article was actually end it on a decent quote. The sentences leading up to the quote are terrible, but the quote isn't awful.]
****
VOICE
There used to be a time when I'd read a Gary Smith story and fume about how great of a writer he is. About how through his 5,000-plus word narratives he could mix-and-match his words into a story that is nearly impossible to put down.
As I flipped through the pages of Sports Illustrated and reading Gary's words, I'd go off on how great he is and how much I suck rather than try and figure out what made him so great. How is it that HE is a four-time National Magazine Award winner, and little ol' me is still working my way to the top. I've grown up a bit since then, though, and these days, there isn't as much fuming as there is mesmerizing.
What strikes me about Gary Smith being as great a writer as he is is his understanding of life around him, of being able to look at a story, pick out its underlying themes and incorporate his voice, albeit very subtle, and turn it into a very powerful narrative.
And while most of his narratives have enough drama to run the course of the story, his added touch with his voice, dropping in a brief question or slipping in a clever line that makes you sit back and say, 'Whoa!', is just incredible.
The thing I'm beginning to realize with voice*––thanks largely in part to Gary Smith– –is how powerful it can be. Sure, a narrative can survive on its own and still be great, but voice gives it that little extra flair. It's like ice cream, for example, great on its own but adding some chocolate, pecans and whip cream make it that much better.
[*When I say voice I don't mean it in the sense of first person and using 'I' in a narrative. I'm with David Granger, editor-in-chief of Esquire, when he says that first person is killing journalism***.]
Being 22, though, and just getting started in this business––more so just getting started with narrative––I'm still working to develop my voice, to develop my writing style. So far I've been like a mutt, I guess you can say, taking pieces from "Rapture of the Deep" by Gary Smith, a dose of "The Things That Carried Him" by Chris Jones, a chapter from "The Rapist Says He's Sorry" by Tom Junod, "Staying the Course" by Wright Thompson, "Frank Sinatra Has A Cold" by Gay Talese, among all the other fine narrative writers to ever grace the pages with their words.
So with great hope, I imagine that one day I will join their ranks. That one day I'll be able to write like this:
"When it's all done, you'll have to decide which side of the water's surface to see the myth through, and who got the moral of the story right. Those who see the half-naked woman inside the hammerhead shark and say, "Of course, because that's where she lives now." Or those who see it and say, "Of course, she was devoured.' Remember one thing: It was Audrey who drew the picture."*
[*An excerpt from Gary Smith's "Rapture of the Deep".]
–––
***Having said that, I do believe that there are those cases where 'I' works (see "Rapture of the Deep"* when Gary writes, "But I've always felt it was best to start with the half-naked woman."), but even so those cases are so rare that it's probably best not to use it at all.
*For the record, "Rapture of the Deep" is probably my all-time favorite narrative, in case you haven't already noticed.
As I flipped through the pages of Sports Illustrated and reading Gary's words, I'd go off on how great he is and how much I suck rather than try and figure out what made him so great. How is it that HE is a four-time National Magazine Award winner, and little ol' me is still working my way to the top. I've grown up a bit since then, though, and these days, there isn't as much fuming as there is mesmerizing.
What strikes me about Gary Smith being as great a writer as he is is his understanding of life around him, of being able to look at a story, pick out its underlying themes and incorporate his voice, albeit very subtle, and turn it into a very powerful narrative.
And while most of his narratives have enough drama to run the course of the story, his added touch with his voice, dropping in a brief question or slipping in a clever line that makes you sit back and say, 'Whoa!', is just incredible.
The thing I'm beginning to realize with voice*––thanks largely in part to Gary Smith– –is how powerful it can be. Sure, a narrative can survive on its own and still be great, but voice gives it that little extra flair. It's like ice cream, for example, great on its own but adding some chocolate, pecans and whip cream make it that much better.
[*When I say voice I don't mean it in the sense of first person and using 'I' in a narrative. I'm with David Granger, editor-in-chief of Esquire, when he says that first person is killing journalism***.]
Being 22, though, and just getting started in this business––more so just getting started with narrative––I'm still working to develop my voice, to develop my writing style. So far I've been like a mutt, I guess you can say, taking pieces from "Rapture of the Deep" by Gary Smith, a dose of "The Things That Carried Him" by Chris Jones, a chapter from "The Rapist Says He's Sorry" by Tom Junod, "Staying the Course" by Wright Thompson, "Frank Sinatra Has A Cold" by Gay Talese, among all the other fine narrative writers to ever grace the pages with their words.
So with great hope, I imagine that one day I will join their ranks. That one day I'll be able to write like this:
"When it's all done, you'll have to decide which side of the water's surface to see the myth through, and who got the moral of the story right. Those who see the half-naked woman inside the hammerhead shark and say, "Of course, because that's where she lives now." Or those who see it and say, "Of course, she was devoured.' Remember one thing: It was Audrey who drew the picture."*
[*An excerpt from Gary Smith's "Rapture of the Deep".]
–––
***Having said that, I do believe that there are those cases where 'I' works (see "Rapture of the Deep"* when Gary writes, "But I've always felt it was best to start with the half-naked woman."), but even so those cases are so rare that it's probably best not to use it at all.
*For the record, "Rapture of the Deep" is probably my all-time favorite narrative, in case you haven't already noticed.
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