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Don't Judge a Book by Its Cover: Part One
Editor's Note: This is the first of a four-part series from intern Greg West, our Studio intern who is currently majoring in print/digital journalism at USC. Already in his young writing career, West's work has graced the pages of “The Eagle-Tribune” and “The Sunday Eagle-Tribune," both located in Massachussetts.
To me, there’s nothing quite as synonymous with investigative journalism as throwing backflips out of an airplane at 30,000 feet. As it turns out, both writing and skydiving are a risky business with activity that can easily get you killed or put in the hospital if you’re not careful. For me, that was the appeal.
I’ve always loved dangerous sports like skateboarding and motocross, so picking a career in journalism seemed second nature. As a kid, I was assaulted by the relationship between journalism and subsequent badassery. Besides real people like Hunter S. Thompson, characters in television shows and novels made journalists seem more like rock stars than note-takers. Even Superman sampled his adventurous palate with daytime journalism when he wasn’t makin’ out with Lois Lane or punching holes in bad guys.
Naturally, I grew up wanting a press pass rather than a present each Christmas.
When I turned 16, I landed my first job at a newspaper and finally scored my first press pass. It was all fame and fortune from there; concerts were free, food was (sometimes) free, and I had my very own go-anywhere pass. Life was good.
However, there was a major FAIL in the works. I hadn’t put two and two together to figure out that as a journalist, I would have to spend most of my day “finger-dancing” in front of a computer. I love the outdoors, so life in a cubicle wasn’t being kind. Honestly, the only thing keeping me sane was the techdech that I would play with when my editor wasn’t watching. This definitely wasn’t the thrilling life that I had seen on television or read about in books; where was all the excitement?
By about my second week of work, I was dying; I would have rather taken a sponge bath with sandpaper than type up another draft about a community church award. Little did I know things were about to change.
I’m pretty sure my editor, to her infinite credit, noticed my siphoning enthusiasm for newsroom shenanigans. In her ceaseless wisdom, she sent me out to search for stories on my own in the rural woodlands of northern Massachusetts. At that time, I was just glad to get out of the newsroom, but I would soon learn just how much action there really was lurking in the seemingly quiet bowels of the Northeast.
To be continued ...
To me, there’s nothing quite as synonymous with investigative journalism as throwing backflips out of an airplane at 30,000 feet. As it turns out, both writing and skydiving are a risky business with activity that can easily get you killed or put in the hospital if you’re not careful. For me, that was the appeal.
I’ve always loved dangerous sports like skateboarding and motocross, so picking a career in journalism seemed second nature. As a kid, I was assaulted by the relationship between journalism and subsequent badassery. Besides real people like Hunter S. Thompson, characters in television shows and novels made journalists seem more like rock stars than note-takers. Even Superman sampled his adventurous palate with daytime journalism when he wasn’t makin’ out with Lois Lane or punching holes in bad guys.
Naturally, I grew up wanting a press pass rather than a present each Christmas.
When I turned 16, I landed my first job at a newspaper and finally scored my first press pass. It was all fame and fortune from there; concerts were free, food was (sometimes) free, and I had my very own go-anywhere pass. Life was good.
However, there was a major FAIL in the works. I hadn’t put two and two together to figure out that as a journalist, I would have to spend most of my day “finger-dancing” in front of a computer. I love the outdoors, so life in a cubicle wasn’t being kind. Honestly, the only thing keeping me sane was the techdech that I would play with when my editor wasn’t watching. This definitely wasn’t the thrilling life that I had seen on television or read about in books; where was all the excitement?
By about my second week of work, I was dying; I would have rather taken a sponge bath with sandpaper than type up another draft about a community church award. Little did I know things were about to change.
I’m pretty sure my editor, to her infinite credit, noticed my siphoning enthusiasm for newsroom shenanigans. In her ceaseless wisdom, she sent me out to search for stories on my own in the rural woodlands of northern Massachusetts. At that time, I was just glad to get out of the newsroom, but I would soon learn just how much action there really was lurking in the seemingly quiet bowels of the Northeast.
To be continued ...
SylviaCini
Aug 10, 10:37 PM
Just reading your piece and wanted to comment a bit...
I was wondering if you read your work aloud? Or if you had someone else read it to you? I found the conversational tone engaging. However, the sentence structure was difficult to get past. The piece seems to lack the smooth transitions of an actual speaker. The metaphors and verbosity are at loggerheads with the casual tone of the piece. If that makes sense?
Congrats on the internship and all.
Write on,
Sylvia
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