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Don't Judge a Book by Its Cover: Part Three
Editor's Note: This is the third of a four-part series from Greg West, our Studio intern who is currently majoring in print/digital journalism at USC.
Read part one here.
Read part two here.
Casting my desk in shifting shadows, faulty florescent lights clicked on and off above me. Even from my hiding spot among the cubicles in the office, I could still hear the soft “click” of keyboards somewhere in the room. Slowly, I laid my head in the warm inviting nook of my arm. Sleep…
“Greg…No sleeping… GREG, you know that you have to write this story.” I tilted my head to the left; my editor’s nose just peaked over the side of the cubicle wall. “I know its 8:00AM and you didn’t get home till 2:00, but you’ve still got to pump this out.” She sat back down at her desk.
I felt like I was in some sort of Orwellian nightmare. I couldn’t believe I had to write about the Phish concert when I could still smell the show on me. It took all night just to drive back. I’m sure that there had to be a labor law for this.
Thinking back, the concert unfolded in a disjointed blur. It was a flood of images and senses: brilliant lights and glittering pastels, Winnebago’s and hippy women, car exhaust and burning wood. The experience was still so fresh in my mind, but I didn’t know where to begin. This was honestly the first time I’d had the opportunity to write something big in the newsroom. I was starting to become concerned that there was no way I’d be able to fit in everything that I had experienced.
Where do I start?
In front of me, the cursor blinked ominously in the word document, taunting me to begin.
I realized quickly that this Phish concert had the potential to become a flurry of interwoven personal narratives, social histories, and branching perspectives. Unfortunately, I couldn’t nearly tell every story or discuss every point of view. I had to pick and choose what to put in and to leave out. More than anything, I wanted my article to capture the culture of “the jam band” and its fans.
I pulled out my recorder, clicked in a pair of headphones, and listened to the voices of everyone I had interviewed. I wrote down my favorite lines on a yellow, coffee stained notepad. Once I had enough quotes, I took out my headphones and tossed my recorder back in my desk. The concert was new to me again.
“Who knows who had more fun during Phish’s performance at the Comcast Center yesterday; the hundreds of Hippies playing drums outside, or the hundreds of concert-goers throwing light sticks at each other inside?” There it was, the first sentence. I was feeling good. Soon, paragraph after paragraph grew out of seemingly blank pages, and my experience began to unfolding on paper.
Before I knew it I was done and it wasn’t even 11:30AM yet. Then I noticed that I had gone significantly over my editor’s word count and my short lived victory turned into more work as I spent the next hour slimming down my article. After a several edits, cuts, reviews and a final read, it was time to get this to my editor. One swift click and it was off. I could hear my story, my hours of work, “ping” in her inbox after I sent it , while I strummed my nails on my desk nervously.
A minute or two later, she once again peeked her nose over the cubicle wall. There was a split second of terrifying silence as our eyes met.
“Good job, Greg.” She said. “You can go home now and sleep if you want.”
I sighed and slumped into my chair. Those were the best words I had heard all day. However, I knew that I wouldn’t be resting for long. This article, as important as it seemed at the time, was only a stepping stone.
Read part one here.
Read part two here.
Casting my desk in shifting shadows, faulty florescent lights clicked on and off above me. Even from my hiding spot among the cubicles in the office, I could still hear the soft “click” of keyboards somewhere in the room. Slowly, I laid my head in the warm inviting nook of my arm. Sleep…
“Greg…No sleeping… GREG, you know that you have to write this story.” I tilted my head to the left; my editor’s nose just peaked over the side of the cubicle wall. “I know its 8:00AM and you didn’t get home till 2:00, but you’ve still got to pump this out.” She sat back down at her desk.
I felt like I was in some sort of Orwellian nightmare. I couldn’t believe I had to write about the Phish concert when I could still smell the show on me. It took all night just to drive back. I’m sure that there had to be a labor law for this.
Thinking back, the concert unfolded in a disjointed blur. It was a flood of images and senses: brilliant lights and glittering pastels, Winnebago’s and hippy women, car exhaust and burning wood. The experience was still so fresh in my mind, but I didn’t know where to begin. This was honestly the first time I’d had the opportunity to write something big in the newsroom. I was starting to become concerned that there was no way I’d be able to fit in everything that I had experienced.
Where do I start?
In front of me, the cursor blinked ominously in the word document, taunting me to begin.
I realized quickly that this Phish concert had the potential to become a flurry of interwoven personal narratives, social histories, and branching perspectives. Unfortunately, I couldn’t nearly tell every story or discuss every point of view. I had to pick and choose what to put in and to leave out. More than anything, I wanted my article to capture the culture of “the jam band” and its fans.
I pulled out my recorder, clicked in a pair of headphones, and listened to the voices of everyone I had interviewed. I wrote down my favorite lines on a yellow, coffee stained notepad. Once I had enough quotes, I took out my headphones and tossed my recorder back in my desk. The concert was new to me again.
“Who knows who had more fun during Phish’s performance at the Comcast Center yesterday; the hundreds of Hippies playing drums outside, or the hundreds of concert-goers throwing light sticks at each other inside?” There it was, the first sentence. I was feeling good. Soon, paragraph after paragraph grew out of seemingly blank pages, and my experience began to unfolding on paper.
Before I knew it I was done and it wasn’t even 11:30AM yet. Then I noticed that I had gone significantly over my editor’s word count and my short lived victory turned into more work as I spent the next hour slimming down my article. After a several edits, cuts, reviews and a final read, it was time to get this to my editor. One swift click and it was off. I could hear my story, my hours of work, “ping” in her inbox after I sent it , while I strummed my nails on my desk nervously.
A minute or two later, she once again peeked her nose over the cubicle wall. There was a split second of terrifying silence as our eyes met.
“Good job, Greg.” She said. “You can go home now and sleep if you want.”
I sighed and slumped into my chair. Those were the best words I had heard all day. However, I knew that I wouldn’t be resting for long. This article, as important as it seemed at the time, was only a stepping stone.
SylviaCini
Aug 11, 2:19 AM
-Sylvia
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Jessyca
Aug 11, 10:53 AM
1
This is a four-part series. Tune in for the next part to see if there's a connection to the title.
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