There is something vicious about being a reporter. Something vulture-like that reminds me of the scene from "Deep Blue Sea" when the shark smells her blood and is lured right to her. And the he rips her to shreds, quite literally.
It's a terrible movie and I don't recommend it, but LL Cool J is in it and he has a parrot and it's slightly humerous.
At any rate, my point is this: when a reporter smells blood, look out.
So Joe the Plumber stepped forward and put himself in a public lime light that I'm sure he's regretting now. He stepped forward to challenge Obama, asking, "What are you SERIOUSLY going to do for us here below?" And now Joe has been subjected to all kinds of scrutiny, from his single-parenthood to his tax history.
What is it about this story that reporters have latched into? What is different about Joe's question than the questions posed on the YouTube debates not a year ago? And what is it about Americans that has launched newspaper reporting into this level of vulture-ness?
I feel bad for Joe because like many people, he's learned the hard way that public is the new private. When it comes to reporters and politics, no one is safe. The message being sent here is: You can challenge the President and ask him questions and try to get straight answers out of him, but it's at the risk of your own personal space. It's at the risk of having reporters camp out on your lawn to find out what kind of cleaner you use on your toilet.
This is the level journalism has been taken to, folks, and I'm not sorry I got out of it. When it comes to politics, and if there's blood in the water, forget about it. Reporters will be all over it.
And just so you know, I'm not entirely knocking the journalism profession. I think there is a call for news, especially in such an uncertain economy. But does CNN really have to continuously put pictures of sad stock brokers up on its home page? We don't hear any good news anymore. Is it because good news doesn't exist? What changed in journalism?
Another post for another day. Perhaps later.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
First update in over a year
Life is a crazy little thing and it gets away from you some time. Like most of my journals, I was pretty religious about updating my blog and then sure enough, time and space move and somewhere into that great abyss went my great plans for keeping up the blog.
So where I've been since my last post:
I think there comes a time in every writer's life when he or she just has to HATE -- and by hate I mean absolutely loathe his or her craft. At some point, a writer has to put down the pen, close the computer, unplug the typewriter -- whatever -- and just let it go for a while.
Or find a way to spice it up.
Lately, I've been finding that I don't feel so fulfilled when I'm writing. I've lost the spark and passion that I used to feel. I don't know if that's come on account of being a recovering newspaper reporter or spending so much time neck-deep in academic writing, but the passion for creative fiction writing that I used to feel has sort of ebbed.
My sister, in the last two years or so, has gotten herself deeply into her passion for writing. She's written a few longer works and she's extremely determined to get into the publishing sphere. I remember having that passion. I remember going through Writer's Market with a fine tooth comb looking for that perfect agent and publisher. And somewhere between doing that and not getting it done, I lost the spark.
So what to do:
A lot of the solution is encased in the notion of "self analysis." What was it that drove me to write? What excited me about writing? What made writing the only thing I could think about? And what circumstances happened to make that go away? Is it something I want to reclaim, and if I do want to reclaim it, what is necessary for me to reclaim it?
And is it time right now to just put fiction aside and focus on whatever moment I happen to be in?
Or maybe the answer lies in exploring another genre, such as creative nonfiction. I don't think I'm a poet. I've pretty much successfuly determined that each and every one of my poems is the product of depression, which is how I think it goes for most writers.
Every writer gets into a rut, and it's a lot of self evaluation that draws you back into your "happy writing place." Eventually, I think, if you're meant to be a writer, you'll go back to it anyway because you'll find if it's truly your passion, you won't be able to stay away from it, not even for a moment.
I'm not sure how long my moment will last, but that's where it stands right now. Year two of graduate school and still picking at novels that are just sitting there on my harddrive.
So where I've been since my last post:
I think there comes a time in every writer's life when he or she just has to HATE -- and by hate I mean absolutely loathe his or her craft. At some point, a writer has to put down the pen, close the computer, unplug the typewriter -- whatever -- and just let it go for a while.
Or find a way to spice it up.
Lately, I've been finding that I don't feel so fulfilled when I'm writing. I've lost the spark and passion that I used to feel. I don't know if that's come on account of being a recovering newspaper reporter or spending so much time neck-deep in academic writing, but the passion for creative fiction writing that I used to feel has sort of ebbed.
My sister, in the last two years or so, has gotten herself deeply into her passion for writing. She's written a few longer works and she's extremely determined to get into the publishing sphere. I remember having that passion. I remember going through Writer's Market with a fine tooth comb looking for that perfect agent and publisher. And somewhere between doing that and not getting it done, I lost the spark.
So what to do:
A lot of the solution is encased in the notion of "self analysis." What was it that drove me to write? What excited me about writing? What made writing the only thing I could think about? And what circumstances happened to make that go away? Is it something I want to reclaim, and if I do want to reclaim it, what is necessary for me to reclaim it?
And is it time right now to just put fiction aside and focus on whatever moment I happen to be in?
Or maybe the answer lies in exploring another genre, such as creative nonfiction. I don't think I'm a poet. I've pretty much successfuly determined that each and every one of my poems is the product of depression, which is how I think it goes for most writers.
Every writer gets into a rut, and it's a lot of self evaluation that draws you back into your "happy writing place." Eventually, I think, if you're meant to be a writer, you'll go back to it anyway because you'll find if it's truly your passion, you won't be able to stay away from it, not even for a moment.
I'm not sure how long my moment will last, but that's where it stands right now. Year two of graduate school and still picking at novels that are just sitting there on my harddrive.
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