Change is Good

I wouldn't have said that the day I got laid off from a job that I had originally thought was a stepping stone to my dream career.

It was the job, that when I stood at the bottom of the sweeping marble steps to the entry of the multi-storied downtown building, I thought, "I've made it."

Like a scene out of a movie, I imagined how my mother -- dead a year -- would have cried from being so proud.

Imagine my disappointment at the disillusionment I experienced only a few weeks in. A few months in I was fed up and feeling totally devalued. Manipulated.

A few months before I was let go, I hated being there and found it hard to get up in the morning because of the dread I felt.

That job was a nightmare.

The experience of getting to work with some fine people -- true professionals -- was wonderful. The adventure of working in a large building full of other professionals (albeit with a few exceptions) made putting up with the troubles almost bearable.

But alas, in answer to my unspoken prayers, mismanagement there decided I was to be among a dozen or so people laid off to deal with the "economic downturn."
Read - 'We got what we needed from you, now you may go.'

I'm truly thankful, now, that they did.

From the moment my editor said, "They need to see you in HR," to the precise millisecond that the HR lady finally said "We're going to have to let you go," I was in gut-wrenching turmoil.

Immediately, I felt a confusing mix of relief and anger. As I was stripped of my employee and press ID literally, my emotions began to run the gamut: Resentment and disappointment; Righteous indignation and deflation.

Adding insult to injury, I was instructed to pack up and get out. Immediately.

My fellow reporter, my partner in crime for the smaller publication put out by company, seemed just as upset as I was. She tried not to cry and attempted to keep me calm while tears were streaming down my face as I packed up my things.

I was told not to make a big to-do out of goodbyes. I guess someone else had. But I was determined to let the people I valued know how much I thought of them and that I would miss them. So around the room I went -- yes, quietly.

I was surprised at how many people that I thought might not really care, were visibly stunned and offering hugs.

Further insult came as my editor ushered me out of the newsroom, into the elevator and stood there watching as I got in my car and drove out of underground garage.

In the blink of an eye, I had transformed from a useful and productive employee with respect and benefits into a threat that needed to be carefully surveilled.

I cried on the way home. I hated it, but couldn't help it. I called a few of my contacts and told them through gulping sniffles what had happened.
These are the people whose loyalties came with me from my previous paper to the one that just disloyally cut me off.
I was assured by each of them that they were behind me and everyone said they would be on the lookout for a job for me.

But the epiphany didn't come until a few days later. I was breathing easier, I could sleep better and my back didn't hurt. I wasn't as cranky - which my husband noticed - and I was laughing again.

Apparently, I had gotten used to the abuse and the idea that my personal value was tied up with my professional life. I had forgotten that self-respect and happiness were more important.

We needed that paycheck, but I shouldn't have let money keep me somewhere that was so destructive and toxic.

Now, I've returned to my beloved community newspaper. The place where during my first week back, I received several phone calls from people in the community who were more than happy I was back.

That makes all the difference. Knowing that other people feel my presence and appreciate the work I do. It makes up for the lower pay and less-than-fancy digs.

Making a difference.

So I've decided to continue embracing change, to see each instance as an opportunity instead of an obstacle.

The grass isn't always greener -- sometimes it isn't even grass -- but you'll never know unless you at least peak over the fence.

Not a sports chick

I’ve never been into America’s Past Time (baseball) or the wife-beater’s fave of football. I enjoyed playing, briefly, basketball in school and have found that I like watching it too.

But my first love is HOCKEY sports-wise.

Now I did a stint in journalism school at the university covering hockey. The team wasn’t an official campus team but rather a club. They had a lot of heart, played their guts out against the likes of Stanford’s well-funded team while paying for their own equipment, transportation and practices.

I fell in love the first game. The cold of the interior air. The smell of the rink and the thrill of watching and hearing those players skate by at 50-miles an hour sealed the deal.

Okay, I didn’t like it if I was in agony from feminine health issues since the cold of the bench reached directly into my bones. Often I would soothe the physical discomfort with a hot chocolate so I could devote the intellectual to the game.

The hot cocoa and a big fluffy chocolate-brown feaux fur jacket became part of the hockey ritual.

AND… the best part???
Interviewing the hot, sweaty and scantily clad players in the locker room after the game!!! Alright, so I never made it further than a couple of feet through that door, but not for lack of invitation. The guys didn’t care. I just couldn’t bring myself to be THAT kind of reporter. Not then at least!

How do you go from knowing nothing about hockey to being able to write about a game with some kind of authority? Crash course, let me tell you.

My then-editor gave me several stories written by the more experienced sports reporter and said to pay attention.

Well, that was good for the writing end of the issue. But how do I know what to write if I know nothing about the game? How can I pick out what is important and how much of it do I need to keep close track of besides the score?

“Hockey for Dummies.” I am the first to admit that I am not above the Dummies books. (I’ve even given “Sex for Dummies” as a semi-gag bridal shower gift. It went over VERY well and I highly recommend that!)
After reading that book, getting some of the lingo down and the other stories in my notebook, I went to the rink.

My fear quickly melted despite the freezing temperatures. It was an alternate universe, a club where I belonged because it was my job to make sure anybody who wasn’t there would read about it and feel like they were.

The crowning moment was when I timidly tracked down the players to find out their thoughts on the game. I had all kinds of preconceived notions about what kind of cocky jerks they must be. They just skated their asses off, nothing that my fat butt could ever hope to do… they must be stuck up and mean.

Was I wrong! Boy. Nice, accommodating - and I mean that: here they were overheated, wanting to shower, it’s late on a school night - I was blown away.

That’s something I came to truly cherish about those games. I got to know the players a little better than the average “fan” and so their losses were my losses and their wins were my wins. And it was mine alone. I didn’t have a friend go with me, no one at my side to share. Mine all mine!

Oh, how I miss those evenings.

Maybe I’ll make some hot cocoa and turn the AC way down.

Boredom leads to mistakes

It's hard to muster up the same enthusiasm you initially had for a story that you've read three times before. Especially when that story is your own.
It's easy to get bored with it to the point that you glance instead of read. That's what leads to errors going from catchable to printed. From "phew" to "oh no!"

Typing fast to meet deadlines is another way to get an error into a story. Whether it be typos, spelling errors or just brain freeze - their instead of there or they're - a mistake is only glaring once it's in print and available to the hundreds of arm-chair editors we lovingly call "readers."

Almost a decade ago, I was assigned to cover all the new deans of the colleges at my university. There were at least eight newcomers, maybe more, but I was getting worn out of this type of profile.
How many ways can you make that story interesting?
Well, one of the deans, a very gentle and gracious woman in the College of Business, called to thank me for the profile. I was pleased she had enjoyed it. After a few moments of being pleased, she unleashed a very valuable lesson: a person is insightful, not inciteful.

Talk about embarrassed. I had written this lovely tome about how nice and educated this woman was only after I had accused her of starting riots. Inciteful, huh? YIKES.

And recently, a co-worker's typo became my error because I didn't catch it during copy editing. It should have read that the public is responsible. It actually read that the pubic is responsible. YI-IKES

Live and learn. Truth is, that kind of thing will always happen, but it's more likely to when the reporter and editor are mentally fatigued. Things that are obvious the next day, blend right in the night before.

My advice?

Get more sleep, try to relax and step away for just enough time to gain renewed interest in the written word.

It can only help.

Now, I suppose I should take my own advice, eh? On it!

Lunch is never at "lunch" time

It's true. Many a reporter will tell you they rarely eat on a schedule that non-newsies would consider "normal."

We're a different breed. We work late and sleep late when we can. We get into work mid-morning or later unless there's a morning event to cover or breaking news that rouses us earlier. Seriously, 8 o'clock doesn't happen twice in my day.

So here it is 1 p.m. and I'm at work but not working. I'm "working." See, I'm waiting on pages to come out of the printer so I can proof them. Check them over for errors, typos, spelling mistakes and hopefully catch all the big stuff. No one's perfect, but two sets of imperfect eyes can get the paper much closer than only one set.

Anyway, I'll probably get to eat around 2. Dinner will be much later, I'm sure.

Food doesn't necessarily dictate my mood, but has a lot to do with it. And there are times when I'm on such a good mental roll in a story that I won't stop to eat. I'll only stop if I start to feel dizzy. That's a good time to get animal crackers and a soda. Not so good for coworkers who stumble upon the vicious monster prior to munching!

Did I mention that reporters are quite often heavy set too? It's true. Not all, by no means. But people who spend a lot of time stressed out, who work odd hours and don't eat on regular schedules tend to put on the pounds.

So I've decided to implement a desktop diet that should help me maintain a steady flow of healthy foods while providing some sort of schedule. It involves a cooler with blue-ice packs, veggies and ranch dip, Capri Sun or some other juice drink and lots of preparation.

This will never happen of course, but I can dream!

Press Corps

No, not "corpse," that's corps, as in a body of people. Or in our case, a body of nearly dead people. But I digress.
My job is similar to that of famed Lois Lane of the Superman comics. Go to work, get a story, write the story, revel in glory.
Okay, there's very little glory to be had except maybe once or twice in a lifetime and even then it's very little.
And there's no Superman unless you count the homeless guy in Underoos perched on the front steps.

Being a reporter, a journalist and a writer is nothing like the romanticized stereotypes would lead you to believe.
It's long hours, tons of leg work, exhausting nights in an uncomfortable desk chair all so the public who has a right to know can.

This blog isn't going to be about specific assignments or projects, but about themes found in the industry that shapes nearly everyone's opinion of the world around them. The hows and whys and outcomes of decisions - good and bad.

It will undoubtedly include remarks like "oh, my aching [insert body part here]" and "Where's that darn file?!"

But you get the gist. Please feel free to jump into the fray with me, comment, argue and let's hash it all out.

After all, I'm a professional with a job to do.
Let's shed some light on what it's like being a big-city journalist in a smallish-town market trying to maintain some semblance of her sanity.