Dating columnist julia
Dating columnist julia - local dating service in
When I graduated, my professors all gave the same advice: Get a job at a newspaper.Daily reporting, I was told, was the best way to strengthen the skills I’d just spent a year learning.
But while I credit journalism school with imbuing in me a sense of the seriousness of my chosen career, it did not prepare me for the work I encountered at the – or, in some ways, for my work since.
I can’t find the link to the article to be certain about the relationships, but my recollection is that it involved the niece of a local politician who had been arrested after allegedly getting in a fight outside a courthouse. On the kitchen table was a copy of the ,” she said, sadly.
Ron was my photographer again, and this time, I tried to take charge. “If you start snapping pictures, she’ll just run away.” Ron shook his head. “There’s no story without a photo.” The young woman we were looking for came home just as the sun was going down. “My mom’s been a subscriber since before I was born.” We talked for almost an hour. She begged me to stop the story and I told her the truth: I had absolutely no power to do that.
had learned, was enrolled in classes at the College of Staten Island.
“Ask him if he thinks the students should feel unsafe around him,” my editor instructed. “What the ” “Why can’t you leave him alone,” wailed the father, trying to pull his son back into the garage. Please.” It was the first of many times that the people I tried to talk to during the three years I was a reporter for the to me in a similar tone. After a while, I learned to wiggle past the pleases and get a quote for my editor, but on that first day, the father’s please was enough to shame me, and I ran back to my car.
Occasionally I interviewed a celebrity for a profile to tie in with their latest project.
I was usually instructed to keep my questions to a specific, previously agreed upon subject, and the answers they gave me were as generic as a politician’s. The first time I tried “real” reporting, I knew almost immediately that I was in over my head.
But you can’t be a journalist if you can’t handle the fear. ) I told him to wait in his car, and I knocked again. “I know this is awful, but that picture is going to run in the paper.
You can’t even pretend you’re trying to get to the truth if you’re too scared or lazy or careless to ask the important question, or fight over a misleading headline with your editor, or acknowledge that the article you spent all day running around for is so trivial that it might as well be “fake.” *** SOMETIME AFTER THE SEX OFFENDER STORY, I was sent to Staten Island again. Do you want to try to explain, at least, for the readers, what happened? I walked upstairs to the little apartment where her barefoot boyfriend was pacing in basketball shorts.
It cemented in me the instinct to always be a human being before a reporter.
I would never feel like shit going home without a “great” quote for my editor, but I would stay up all night thinking about the face of the teenager I pushed too far with questions about her just-arrested favorite teacher.
I called the police who’d arrested the mother, but I didn’t really know what to ask them. When I finally sat down to start writing, I realized I didn’t have half the information I needed to tell the story.