For four years, I've been a recovering journalist, and I just slipped off the non-writing wagon. I got a new job, and in a matter of minutes, I will step back into a newsroom, and I will be alive again. Because that's what it is to be a reporter.
Phones ring. Police scanners shriek. Reporters rustle through their notepads, looking for a quote to plug into their story. In one corner, an editor belittles an intern for misspelling a source's name, and in another, a photographer bitches about how his/her picture deserves front page placement rather than page 4 of Section B.
If it's not a deadline whipping reporters into a frenzy, then it's the next interview to land, the next source to find, the next hot tip that will result in the big award that will finally justify the late hours, the lack of social life, and the constantly overdrawn bank account.
Newsrooms crackle with chaos, and I can't wait to be back.
I used to be a hard-news reporter. I've covered stabbings, street brawls, kidnappings, murders-for-hire, and a case where someone forked their family member in the eye on Thanksgiving. Of course, I've done other things, too. I've spoken with veterans of World War II, Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan. I've followed a gaggle of Abraham Lincoln lookalikes. I've ridden the bus with casino-bound retirees (and survived.) I've exposed environmental scandals, brought to light city corruption, dug through tax increment financing jargon, and went hunting for ghosts with local psychics. (We didn't find any.)
Hell, I even pissed off somebody so much that they created a website dedicated to hating "Bekah Porter Of Bad Journalism."
No, seriously.
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| See the full article here, because it's funny. |
Despite the haters, I loved my life as the hard knock, old-school Lois Lane.
But now I'm going to be a features writer at a community newspaper, and that's just grand. Nothing makes me happier than sitting down with somebody interesting and chatting about their glorious life and learning about what makes them tick.
Besides, this features position is sort of a return to my roots. Because, well, I might have started my journalism career as a childhood Christian columnist.
Think of "Dear Abby..." if Abby spoke in tongues, got slain in the spirit, and had been baptized a minimum of six times.
I worked for a small newspaper -- Kids Incorporated -- with a readership of seven (my parents, my siblings, and me.) The staff was small, too (my parents, my siblings, and me.)
What we lacked in skill, talent, and spelling basics (check out how "Incorporated" is spelled in the paper's banner!), we made up for with chutzpah. Sure, it was printed with crayon, and sure, the reporters rode their bikes around town to get such scathing scoops as "Cat Found Dead in Ditch; Dog Suspected." But we cared about our work, and we wanted to produce the most interesting content possible for our readers.
Which is why I decided that Kids Incorporated needed an advice column.
Using my ingenious brain, I came up with the title: "Dear Abby." Of course, my little blurb had hearts. The real Abby didn't use hearts. She didn't have the balls to use hearts.
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| Notice how all of my answers basically just say "Pray about it and be nice." |
While I wrote columns, my brother wrote sports.
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| How awesome is the last paragraph? "(Jordan) changes his numbers, (and) his team gets fined instead of him. I don't think it's fair. That's all for today." |
My older sister did the classifieds.
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| A beautiful sized barn? Didn't know there was such a thing. |
My younger sister wrote... well, I'm not sure what she was going for, but it's pretty freaking awesome.
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| I love two things about her "article." First, "My office is in my room behind the drawer thing," and second, "Just for kids! No adults may have this newspaper!" |
And, finally, there's my absolute favorite page -- the weather and comics, written by yours truly.
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| "Forcast: Jesus is healing all over the country!!" |
I found these papers a couple of days ago, and it only seems fitting that I share them as I go off to live my childhood dream. Young me would be proud, I think.
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