Travel & Lifestyle Freelance Writer | Market Research Consultant
A journalist.
Yup, that’s how things go here in journalism graduate school.
Someone even reported on the lack of soap in the ladies’ bathroom by placing a yellow sticky note on the depleted dispenser: About gone.
Then, because accuracy is the journalist’s modus operandi and we’re always updating a story when we have new information, another person amended the status: Empty.
It’s a good thing democracy has people in the world like us.
So last weekend, I was chatting with a new friend, Mr. Eugene Buchanan. He’s a rad dude, a great writer, and he knows the paddling and ski industries backward and forward. (Check out his book, “Brothers on the Bashkaus: A Siberian Paddling Adventure” about a rugged rafting expedition.)
Anyway, we we discussing how so many people don’t read the news because it’s too, well, newsy. The writing is dry and boring, and far too frequently, the photos are crap. Hearing a similar viewpoint from a seasoned veteran–and listening to his confession that even when he does write front-page type stories, he still writes accessibly–gave me the confidence to put this post up on the Daily Camera’s environmental blog, Big Green Boulder … read the post, enter the contest, and then laugh at the photo’s caption.
Cheers to fun writing!
Because I won’t publish inane headlines like “Eight delicious recipes for the BEST meatloaf.”
There’s a main strip here in Boulder called Pearl Street. It’s filled with shops, nice restaurants, street performers (in the summer) and often, a lot of homeless people.
On my way from the University of Colorado campus to a meeting with my editor for Peaks Magazine at a Pearl Street coffee joint, I walked right past a scuffle, that’s right, an altercation (and no, Dad, I was not in harm’s way). It was mohawed homeless guy versus buff yuppie. The latter was spewing profanities warning the former he’d better “Back the f*** off.” Apparently he’d been standing too close to, whistling at or doing something to the girl striding along with the rich dude. Something enough to warrant threats of bodily harm.
So what does the journalist do? Do I bust out my camera phone and start taking video? Should I yank a used napkin out of my bag and begin furiously scribbling notes? Do I intercede, offering more concern for the potential brawl participants than the possibility of a story?
Really it was just life happening. Perhaps more exciting and violent life than is habitual, but life just the same. Does the public have the right to know that two men exchanged words and threats? Or does the privacy of these two individuals supersede a journalist’s “scoop”?
What did I end up doing? Well, I walked by, looking over my shoulder in an attempt at discretion every few seconds.
Oh, and I blogged about it.