wearejournalists: Here’s a fact: I’m not a very religious man. But if I had to sift through the events of my life to find anything resembling a religion, it’d sound like journalism. Go figure. But if I do find myself answering to some crusty old editor in the sky, I’d valiantly argue there was no way I was made to do anything but tell stories. Any other way would have been sacrilegious, I’d yell. Every day, I tell stories. And every day, with every narrative, I battle with with language, trying to make the reader hear the change jingling in the pocket of the cop running down an alleyway. Or make them see and smell the steam floating off a ten-foot pile of garbage, filling what was once a little boy’s backyard, where he’d escape from home, eating his microwaved chicken nuggets for dinner, even though the smell was god awful. It doesn’t always work. I strike out and often fail. But with every conversation, sitting in every cozy or cluttered living room, I learn something new. And I know, if not for the sake of making a story breathe or move or scream, I do it for myself. Evey small truth I find prepares me for the telling of bigger one. Some days, it’s brutalizing. But most days, it’s the greatest job on Earth. Telling stories, every day. Some might call it a talent. Others might call it an affliction. I call it a lifeline. It has yet to be determined medically, but I assure you there’s ink running through my veins. Prove it? You’ll just have to read tomorrow’s paper. Because every day is a good day to read. I am a newspaper reporter.
Pop-upView Separately

wearejournalists:

Here’s a fact: I’m not a very religious man. But if I had to sift through the events of my life to find anything resembling a religion, it’d sound like journalism. Go figure. But if I do find myself answering to some crusty old editor in the sky, I’d valiantly argue there was no way I was made to do anything but tell stories. Any other way would have been sacrilegious, I’d yell. Every day, I tell stories. And every day, with every narrative, I battle with with language, trying to make the reader hear the change jingling in the pocket of the cop running down an alleyway. Or make them see and smell the steam floating off a ten-foot pile of garbage, filling what was once a little boy’s backyard, where he’d escape from home, eating his microwaved chicken nuggets for dinner, even though the smell was god awful. It doesn’t always work. I strike out and often fail. But with every conversation, sitting in every cozy or cluttered living room, I learn something new. And I know, if not for the sake of making a story breathe or move or scream, I do it for myself. Evey small truth I find prepares me for the telling of bigger one. Some days, it’s brutalizing. But most days, it’s the greatest job on Earth. Telling stories, every day. Some might call it a talent. Others might call it an affliction. I call it a lifeline. It has yet to be determined medically, but I assure you there’s ink running through my veins. Prove it? You’ll just have to read tomorrow’s paper. Because every day is a good day to read.

I am a newspaper reporter.

Source: wearejournalists

8 Notes/ Hide

  1. lafilleboheme reblogged this from jerriann
  2. jerriann reblogged this from wearejournalists
  3. inzzpirare reblogged this from wearejournalists
  4. candiceaman reblogged this from wearejournalists
  5. castingbones reblogged this from wearejournalists
  6. castingbones submitted this to wearejournalists