Community journalism: Not as lame as it sounds

I know, I know, it’s been three weeks. I pulled my very first blog fail, and I’m going to throw at you, my ever-devoted readers, the same old excuse every blogger uses when he or she hasn’t written an update in three long weeks: I’ve been busy.

In the past month, I’ve: Tasted 10 different kinds of homemade ice creamplayed with pit bulls, toured an almost century-old marina, petted pigs and baby goats at a county fair, and talked to a Teach for America college graduate.

So I’ve been busy. No excuse, I know, but I’ve been busy.

I’ve also been busy readying the Publishing House for the upcoming year of Elm awesomeness. That included, but is not limited to: Creating inDesign templates and snippets; cleaning out old filing cabinets, bookshelves, and desktops; organizing the kitchen and Elm office; decorating walls with newspaper clippings and memes; putting finishing touches on the manual and other files and forms; advertising our subscription sales; and planning this summer’s annual Elm Boot Camp.

I’ve been busy, but that’s what I love about life as a journalist. I’m glad I spent my summer living everything I wanted to blog about instead of having plenty of free time to actually blog. I went to bed exhausted every night, drained from a day of assignments, Elm-related tasks, cooking delicious meals with my best friend, and barreling through a few TV shows (I know, the last item sounds like a lame substitute for blogging, but one of the shows related to my senior capstone project, so it was kind of like homework. Right?).

So this blog post is in defense of community journalism. I just lived three months in the smallest county in Maryland. It’s not the most urban or hip of communities, but it’s full of life, and it deserves high-quality reporting. There’s a slew of negativity out there regarding the future of journalism, but there are some places in the country that, I think, will always appreciate the art of newspapers.

It seems trite, reporting on county fair winners and the Humane Society’s pet of the week. We’re probably not going to snag any Pulitzer Prizes for our hard work (and we work hard. These reporters I work with are some of the most passionate, dedicated people I’ve ever known.), but that’s not what we’re here for. We’re here to bring a community together, and that’s a pretty admirable goal.

I hoped I’d get something big out of my summer experience as I prepared for my editorship next year. I anticipated gaining some more practical writing and editing skills, maybe even brushing up on my photography. I didn’t expect I’d come out of this summer with something so meaningful.

In the flurry of budget meetings, deadlines, school work and thesis next year, I’m going to try my best to hold onto everything I learned about ethics and purpose during my internship. I want to emulate the goals these reporters strive for at the Kent News, even if they’re not always the most rewarding.  We’re not going to get many pats on the back from our readers next year. In fact, if it’s anything like past years, we’re going to get mostly nit-picky complaints about typos from alumni and total unresponsiveness from students. But we’re here to inform and report as fairly and accurately as possible, regardless of what we hear back.

So thanks, Kent County. I’ll do my best to make you proud next year.

Oh, and in case any of you who didn’t forget about me during my July hiatus from Word Press, I’ll be keeping up this blog during the school year. Keep reading if you’re interested in college newspapers, the ramblings of an overwhelmed student editor, or journalism in general.

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Friday the 13th: Daily Punctilio style

I started reading the “Series of Unfortunate Events” books way back before they were cool, long ago and far away during my third grader hipster years. At the time, I appreciated them for their lofty humor, a satirical quality that I couldn’t quite grasp or articulate but still loved to read.

The infamous Daily Punctilio, hot off the press!

I finally finished the 13th book, and I enjoyed the series on an entirely different level during this reread. I enjoyed the books as an English major certainly; I was finally able to grasp all the subtle allusions Lemony Snicket slips into his narration and I caught on to his many tropes and how he takes literary norms and flips them on their head.

But I also appreciated these books as a journalist. In case you’re unfamiliar with the series (and as Lemony regularly reminds us readers, we would all be better off if the books never existed), there’s a recurring character by the name of Geraldine Julienne. She’s the Star Reporter for The Daily Punctilio, the city’s completely immoral and libelous, yet somehow respected, newspaper. She writes her first lie about the Baudelaire orphans in the seventh book, the Vile Village, triggering the children’s exile from society by falsely accusing them of murder.

Here’s a copy of this week’s newspaper. I made a little edit in the photograph in honor of the holiday….

She comes back book after book, writing falsehood after falsehood, endangering the subjects of her stories while roping her readers in with her scandalous, crazed headlines: DOCTOR TELLS HISTORY OF KNIFE; HEIMLICH HOSPITAL ALMOST FORGETS PAPER WORK; MURDER ATTEMPTS TO MURDER MURDERER; COUNT OLAF THINKS UP IDEA FOR LION SHOW; EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH COUNT OLAF, WHO IS NOT COUNT OMAR, WHO IS DEAD.FREAKS PUSHED INTO LION PIT.

Lemony gives his reader a caricatured version of society. In fact, I think it’s safe to say that society as a whole, adult society to be more specific, is the main antagonist of the series. Every grown-up figure or person of power whom the Baudeliaires encounter is either evil or ignorant, and together, these individuals form a corruptible, crazed mob. The media is an overarching representative for these people; The Daily Punctilio voices their selfish opinions and sways the people time and time again into believing falsehoods, even when the truth is right before their eyes.

So sure, Lemony puts the press in a pretty miserable light in his books. But I like how the series highlights the power of the written word. Journalists have the influence to make change and insight anything from a meek letter to the editor to a riotous, orphan-murdering mob.

Geraldine is one of the series’ most infuriatingly dimwitted characters (and trust me, these books are rife with idiot adults), but she’s also a solid warning against the power of the press when it’s in the wrong hands.

So happy Friday the 13th everyone! I hope you have a Very Frightful Day, and remember, the world is quiet here.

Independence Day on the Chester River

I’m assigned plenty of busy work as part of my duties as the “lowly intern” as one of my coworkers likes to jokingly call me. My favorite of these sometimes mundane but necessary and intern-worthy assignments is compiling each week’s early files.

This newspaper dates back to pre-Civil War times, and we take full advantage of our history here in Chestertown. Each week, the newspaper runs clippings from old issues, dating from as far back as 150 years. So every Friday, I scour the towering bookshelves lining the hallway to the back room, pulling out enormous collections of yellowed newspapers. I start with the earliest, 1862, then work my way up, from 150 year ago to 75 years ago (the 100 year-old issues are in fragile enough condition that we can’t even open their book) to 50 to 25 to 10 years ago.

I’m particularly fond of browsing through the 1937 issues, both because of my personal fascination with the time period and the fascinating department store and film ads.

But as a belated Independence Day blog post, I’m focusing on the July 5, 1862 issue today. A few things to note about Civil War issues of this local newspaper: They are laden with quips toward the Confederacy:

A GOOD JOKE: The Richmond Examiner states that, as a result of the late battles, Confederate stocks rose from 93 to 97 cents–payable in Confederate note currency ! It would have been the same thing had they advanced to 197, for both are equally worthless, and a cart load of them would not command a dollar in hard money nowhere in the world outside of rebeldom!

– July 5, 1862

They insert non-political (and oftentimes racist, unfortunately) jokes randomly between news stories:

“Can you give me bills for a ten dollar gold piece?” asked a very pretty young lady of a young man named William, who was tending store.

“No, I cannot,” was the reply.

“Can you oblige me with a single Bill?” she asked.

“Well yes, I guess so–you see they call me Bill, and I’m single, and am entirely at your service.”

– July 5, 1862

And they are beautifully written. Even the most mundane of articles, like regular updates on the wheat crop, are composed in a delicate, almost poetic style. It’s a dramatic contrast to the clear, concise news writing journalists are trained in today. It makes the articles especially entertaining to read.

Some of the most eloquent write-ups are the obituaries. Today, I came across a death notice for a Civil War veteran, born and raised on the Chester River, and also an alumni of our very own Washington College. The first was published soon after his death:

Departed this life, in Memphis, Tenn., the first week in May last, Mr. BENJAMIN C. VICKERS, aged 26 years, and fourth son of George Vickers, Esq., of Chestertown.

The death of Mr. V. was caused by a wound received at the battle of Shiloh, in the first week in April. The deceased with in the battle of Belmont and escaped unhurt.  He was formerly in a large grocery house in this city, an displayed much talent and tact at his calling.

He was educated at Washington College, possessed considerable talent, was intelligent, quick in his perceptions, and of indomitable perseverance. No obstacle was too great for him to surmount. He was courteous, kind, and of noble and generous impulse. He was an affectionate and dutiful son, kind brother and a true friend. His ear was every open to hear, and hand ever ready to relieve, where distress or charity presented their claims. Had he lived, he would have become prominent and successful in his vocation.

Although he lingered and suffered in a land of strangers, yet there the heart of sympathy was found, and the soft hand of friends to smooth his dying pillow. It is said he died in “hope of glorious resurrection.” His parents and relatives have sustained a heavy loss, and a sad bereavement, but may they be consoled “though he cannot come to them, they can go to him.” May he rest in peace, and although the affectionate hand of a mother may not be able to plant the flower at his grave, yet the consolation is, that he rests in peace, where he the cannon’s roar and the din of battle are not heard, and that in the morning of resurrection he shall rise, clothed in white, and in a new body be caught up to dwell forever with the Lord.

The second article went into a bit more detail about his last days:
From the Baltimore American of the 24th.

THE LATE BENJAMIN C. VICKERS. – We have already announced the decease of Mr. Benjamin C. Vickers, son of Gen. George Vickers, of this place, but were unable, at the time, to give any particulars respecting it. We have now the circumstances attending his death, which may prove interesting to a large and sorrowing circle of friends.

Mr. Vickers was at the battle of Shiloh, and seemed to have a presentiment that he would fall in that battle, for in his pocket was found a paper with his name and company written upon it, as also a request that if he fell in battle his father should be informed of it. He was wounded by a minie ball in the thigh near the joint, which broke the bone, and in its course upwards lacerated the integuments and muscles, and when extracted was found flattened to the size of a quarter dollar.

This was on the sixth of April. He was taken to Memphis, to the house of a relative of a friend, where he had every care and attention, and where he died on the third of May, in the twenty-sixth year of his age. Two weeks previous to his disease, and when it because apparent that his wound would prove fatal, he was married to Miss Houston, of Tennessee, niece of Gen. Sam. Houston, of Texas, to whom he was engaged previous to entering the army, and who devoted herself to him with that spirit and tenderness which belongs only to woman.
During his whole illness he was perfectly calm and resigned, and expressed the utmost confidence that he had made his peace with God. A few days before his death he partook of the Communion, and after having sent his remembrances to each of his family, and expressing a great desire to see his mother, and that his father sho9uld be informed that he was not afraid to die, he passed away calmly and peacefully, and almost without a struggle.

And thus passed away our young friend, whose death thus early was triumphant: By his noble and generous qualities he appears to have attracted a large circle of friends in his new home, who manifested a deep interest in his condition and contributed largely to his comforts him his sickness by their attention and sympathies; and as a soldier, his chivalrous bearing at the battle of Shiloh won for him the tribute due to a brave and gallant man; but all this is nau8ght compared to the ever-lasting source of consolation which should bear up his immediate family in their unexpected calamity. Amid the gloom and despondency surrounding them, they have a balm for the wounded sp9irit which must be ever present – their son “died without fear, and in the blessed hope of a joyful resurrection.”

My college is working on a veteran recognition project right now, the first official memorandum we’ve ever offered for the men and women who gave their service, and sometimes lives, to their country. I actually wrote an article on the endeavor last semester, so it was just my luck to run across an article on a Civil War alumni, and only two days after the Fourth of July at that.

I read and reread those two articles for about 15 minutes this morning, imagining what this Benjamin Vickers, who studied, laughed, drank, and learned on the very same campus where I live now, may have been like. It was a harsh reminder for me of the realism of war. Americans have become accustomed to seeing battle and bloodshed as a distant blip on their radar, yet another tragedy to litter news stations and papers. But in the 19th century, war was personal. George Vickers was a real father whose young son was lost to war, and his sorrow and pain were just as heavy as any mourning parents’ today.

This discovery was also a rejuvenating moment for me. As a journalist, I have a part to play in history, too. If it hadn’t been for the anonymous reporter who talked to this young man’s family, or the printer who placed all the individual stamps into the letterpress, Benjamin would be lost to history. If it hadn’t been for them, the 150th anniversary of his death would be forgotten, his name never forwarded to the Washington College alumni office to be listed on their veterans memorial website.

So I’m proud of many things today. I’m proud to be a Washington College student, earning a liberal arts education along the same paths and in the same buildings that once hosted hundreds of brave men and women who went on to serve their country. I’m proud to be a journalist, someone who can immortalize pain, triumph, and sacrifice, so stories can be found and retold again some day. And I’m proud to be an American.

So happy Fourth of July, readers, and let’s remember those who deserve it.

“Overheard in the Newsroom”(s)

Chestertown is the biggest town in Kent County. With a whopping total of about 4,700 residents and a ghost town-esque row of empty store fronts making up its downtown area, it is the closest thing this tiny county has to a cultural hub. I love it here, truly, I do, but it’s a quiet place, not what one might expect from a “college town.” But Washington College thrives. Its students party, learn, grow, and party on the shores of the Chester River, despite rarely interacting within their own town.

To my surprise, Washington College and Chestertown aren’t as divided as I once thought. In fact, I’ve noticed some rather uncanny similarities between The Elm, my beloved college newspaper, and Chestertown’s newspaper. I didn’t expect to relate so much with the staff, but I find that many of their struggles and frustrations, as well as triumphs and joys, are almost eerily similar to my experiences as a student editor for a liberal arts newspaper. So I decided to make a list based off one of my favorite journalism junkie websites. Below are some of what I’ve noticed, based on my internship here as well as some of my past internships, to be universal “overheard in the newsroom” complaints:

  • “If you want something done right, you do it yourself.”

There’s nothing like coming in to the news room on layout night, only to discover that one (or two or three or four) of your photographers flaked on a major assignment. And now it’s up to you to find time, between copy editing pages and placing stories on inDesign, to go out and find some kind of art yourself. Too many times than I’d care to remember last semester, my fellow news editor and I had to venture out, armed only with our amateur photography skills and a “Let’s get this over with so we can get back to work and out of here before midnight” attitude. This has happened with stories we had to more or less rewrite at the last minute, too. It isn’t a pretty sight.

Turns out, we’re not alone. In any system where tasks are delegated among different people, some of whom you never see face-to-face, details fall through the cracks. And sometimes, it’s just easier to stop what you’re doing and get the job done yourself.

  • “I hate those people who complain about the newspaper but never actually read it.”

I heard this from a coworker just the other day, and I’ve heard it echoed among staff at the Elm time and time again. We’ll get email complaints from people who disagree with an article or opinion, which is great (we love feedback: read the following bullet). But these people clearly picked up a single issue and glazed over an article, never having looked at an Elm before they found something they felt like complaining about.

The poor readership on campus is somewhat disconcerting, actually. People pick up Elms, but tend to read the Public Safety reports, try to find their friends in photos, and scan headlines instead of sitting down and digesting the in-depth coverage we try to provide. And more often than not, the complaints we get are from these “readers” who don’t read so much as browse. Which stinks.

  • “Why don’t our readers respond anymore?”

We love feedback, aside from stupid complaints described above, even when it’s critical. Actually, we prefer criticism to a simple “thanks for writing about this!” because believe it or not, we, as students, like to learn. We actually want to improve our writing and coverage, and one of the best ways to do so is by finding out what our audience thinks we could have done better.

But readers are lazy sometimes. And it’s not just college student readers who don’t respond with much more than angry comments online or curse word-laden email rants. High-quality, clear letters to the editor are hard to come by these days, even here at the Kent News.

It’s disappointing when a writer reports on a story that should spark debate, especially when you hear readers arguing over the issue in the dining hall, but none of them take the time to write out a response for the opinion section. I don’t know what to blame. The Internet? Texting? Citizen journalism? All I know is, it’s not just apathetic college students who aren’t responding to good journalism; grown-ups are lazy, too.

  • “InDesign/computers/cameras/iPhones/Facebook/Twitter/WordPress/technology hates me. &%$#@.”

I’ve noticed that no matter a newspaper’s degree of tech-saviness or access to fancy equipment, gadgets and gizmos tend to stop working right before deadline. At least once a week. Cursing ensues.

  • “My friends all think I hate my job from all the complaining I do…”

I’ve worked retail. I know obnoxious customers. I know how much interacting with insipid human beings can grate on your nerves.

I’ve also been writing news articles for the past six years. I can say, from experience, that dealing with public figures and defensive interviewees can be just as infuriating as running a cash register.

Break rooms are notorious places for venting. What exhausted worker doesn’t want to rant about his day when he meets up with coworkers at the proverbial water cooler? Complaining keeps employees sane. It is a universal truth.

Sometimes, during particularly frazzling news weeks, complaining gets a little out of hand. It leaks from the newsroom to phone conversations with family or chats between classes. Naturally, readers overhear these rants. I’ve had to explain to some of my non-editor friends why I continue to work for a newspaper that drives me half-insane on a regular basis.

To an outsider, we sound miserable. But complaining about missed deadlines and obnoxious interviewees is just how we journalists show our love. We’re a rather cynical bunch, but as I’ve told my friends (and prospective reporters who are disillusioned by overheard complaints), letting off steam is half the fun.

Seeing Double

My favorite part of grocery shopping is meandering out of the store with my new purchases swinging beside me, taking in the sweet satisfaction of my own, money-guzzling independence. And then there’s that delicious moment when, as I’m flipping open my awesome switchblade-style car keys (one of the many perks of owning a bug), I pause to flip through the stack of newspapers sitting beside the ATM and coins-to-cash machine.

I’m always brainstorming ideas for design improvements for The Elm, so even if I don’t have time to read any of the stories, I at least scan the front pages for an inspirational information box or graphic. We’re a tabloid sized paper, so we can’t copycat too many layout ideas even if we wanted to, but occasionally I stumble across something that sparks my imagination and makes me want to zip right back to the Publishing House and play with inDesign.

This weekend, while I was shopping with the family during my Father’s Day visit home, the familiar pile of papers caught my attention, and veered away from my parents’ preoccupation with a finicky self-checkout machine to do some front page browsing. The first that caught my eye was The Washington Post. As a D.C. regular, it holds particular interest for me, and always jump at the chance to read about one of my favorite cities in one of my favorite forums. The photos were, of course, intriguing and strong, and the design was crisp and clean.

The front page for The Washington Post’s last Sunday issue.

Satisfied, I investigated the other publications on the shelves. It’s not every day that a grocery store in Frederick, Md. stocks The New York Times, so I picked up the thick ream of paper for a quick perusal.

And the Sunday front page for The New York Times.

If it weren’t for the differing titles, I wouldn’t have been able to tell the two newspapers apart.

Both had a dominant feature photo on the lefthand side of the page. Both had a main, two-column article to the right of the photo. Under the photo, both featured two stories, a one-column and then a more prominent three-column.

Both layouts worked, but I was struck by how the two front pages were virtually identical. I hate to accuse the designers of being unimaginative, but I was certainly disappointed. Here I was, a young journalist hungry for inspiration and innovation, and I found myself glancing at two of the country’s most respected publications, both with the same, standard front page.

The brighter side of my observation is that there’s still consistancy in elements of design. In the upheaval of journalism so many of us are trembling under right now, it’s nice to know that print designers are sticking to the same, effective, time-tested techniques. Both front pages boasted a dominant photo, a clearly dominant story placed above the fold with a bold, strong headline, less prominent stories lower on the page, and other elements to spice up the look of the page, such as subheads and info boxes.

I never got any official training in layout or inDesign. I learned the art of Adobe through trial-and-error in high school, so I’ve developed my own, very personalized style. I’ve strengthened my skills as a news editor these last two years in college, working on a weekly news cycle instead of a sporadic schedule from high school. When you’re designing the same four pages of a section week after week after week, it’s easy to get into a rut. By the second semester of my junior year, layout had become formulaic, swapping old stories for new ones and doing simple rearrangements of text and graphics.

During our trip to the Associated Collegiate Press conference in my spring semester, however, I remembered why I love design. I love it because it can be artistic. I love it because there’s a concrete, definite goal (getting all the stories on the page) but a designer has the freedom to use his or her skills to make a page as effective and aesthetic as possible. The speakers at the ACP conference reminded our burned out college brains to bring some life back into our newspapers, to take risks and try radical design concepts. We’re students after all; we’re at school to learn, and what better way to learn than to try something new, fail, and try again?

We came back and electrified our design. We scrapped our old, horizontal “In this Issue” bar and tested out new design methods with it each week instead. We used color blocks and shading, different font sizes and styles. We integrated cutouts and treating the masthead as something unchangeable and permanent. Some issues were better than others, but people noticed out hard work. We got more compliments on our newspaper those last few months than we had all year.

I understand where those newspaper designers whose work I reviewed last weekend were coming from. There are conventions we use as designers. They’re conventional for a reason: They work. Those guys in D.C. and New York know what they’re doing. They’re getting paid to make pages look clean and effectively showcase photos and stories.

I feel pretty damn lucky to still be in college. I’m not getting paid to be perfect. In fact, I’m hardly getting paid to work at all. I’m on staff to learn, so I’m going to take as many risks as I can.

Technology and Me: An unhealthy relationship

I hate technology. Or rather, it hates me.  I know, I’m a journalist and I should be embracing technology and all its opportunities for connection and speed and accuracy, but it refuses to reciprocate my efforts. It seems like every time I try to use it effectively it finds some backhanded way to lash out at me, whether through crashing my phone or computer or throwing me some new and confusing interface to navigate right when I’m facing deadline.

I got an iPhone this spring. Last summer, the Herald-Mail bought all of its reporters iPhones (barring the intern, of course), and they were encouraged to take photos and videos, post to Facebook and Twitter, stay updated with the news, communicate amongst each other to their hearts’ content, and play Angry Birds.

“If I’m going to be a hip, new-age, responsible journalist, I’d better get myself an iPhone,” I  told myself that summer, and I waited patiently for a cell phone upgrade, itching to get my hands on the shiny new device that I was convinced would become my new favorite toy.

I christened her Esther (Named after the heroine from Bleak House, which I was reading at the time. I name all my electronic devices. I know it’s wishful thinking, but I feel like if I personify my purchases they’ll treat me with more respect. Esther worked particularly well because she’s a famously good-natured, patient, and helpful character. What better name for a phone?). I diligently hooked her up to my computer, powered her up, fed her with all sorts of yummy apps and updates,bought her a pretty, new case (which promptly broke, leading to a bit of an emergency during the brief amount of time she was case-less and my eventual purchase of a heavy-duty Otter case) but to no avail: She hates me.

Every once in a while, she likes to stick her fancy, Apple-brand tongue out at me and claim she doesn’t have a SIM card. She was in the middle of one of these temper tantrums during my very first day at the Kent News this summer, naturally. I ended up having to drive to my assignment in Rock Hall twice, once to interview a gas station owner like I intended, the second after driving all the way back to Chestertown just to be told that my editor had tried to reach me on my cell phone but I’d have to make another 15-minute trek for a second interview. Her keyboard is a spaz, too. About once a week, the letters refuse to obey my fingers, instead choosing to listen to a pair of phantom thumbs that dance around randomly and send my friends strange, jibberish texts.

My work computer. I haven’t even bothered to give it a name.

Today, my work computer reared its ugly, Windows 97 head at me and almost sabotaged my afternoon. We work with a program called Saxo here at the Kent News; it’s basically a dated and ugly, albeit usually effective, system of filing and transferring copy and photos each week. It stopped working today.

The office is used to Saxo being tempermental, so no one was surprised when I haplessly wandered the building for help. Eyebrows were raised, however, when they discovered that Saxo was working everywhere else; Saxo chose me, and only me, to play mind games with today.

I hate this icon even more than I do the Apple swirly pinwheel of death. Note the deceptively peppy term “Seamless” and the ironically cheerful neon colors.

Without Saxo working, I couldn’t access the three stories I was in the middle of writing and editing. All I could do was stare at my screen helplessly and click on the infuriatingly vibrant Saxo desktop icon of a rainbow-colored city skyline. I restarted my computer twice, but nothing worked.

Another little note: my computer is old. She isn’t as old as some of the bulky, decades-old, “worthless” computers taking up space in random corners of the building, but she’s old, which probably doesn’t help my situation much.

One of several ancient Macs that no one’s bothered to throw away, or turn off, apparently.

Luckily, my editor swept in and rescued me. He recovered my files off of his Saxo account, despite their being saved under my personal and supposedly private account, and emailed them my way. So I was able to put finishing touches on my articles on time.

That’s usually what happens: Technology teases me with some seemingly insurmountable obstacle, then magically whisks it away with a solution, just as I’m starting to claw my hair out by the roots in frustration.

Like most 20-year-olds, I’m addicted to my phone and computer. Technology insults and humiliates me, but I always come crawling back, thinking it’s changed its ways. It’s a dangerous relationship, really. I don’t foresee myself leaving Facebook and Words with Friends goodbye any time soon, no matter how many times they hurt me. I’m a college student, I’m a journalist, and I’m a blogger: I am, therefore, hopelessly and unhealthily and eternally, dependent on technology. And so the vicious cycle continues.

Good news: My new computer, River, has behaved surprisingly well so far. I know, I probably just jinxed myself, but I wanted to give credit where it’s due.

Writer’s Block: A success story

I spent an hour slamming my head against my desk this afternoon as I ran draft after draft of descriptive ledes for my dairy farming story through my head.
Okay, so the head slamming part is a bit of an exaggeration, but I still think it’s a fair visualization of the brain-crumbling, spirit-devouring condition otherwise known as writer’s block.

Just about every blogger on my reader’s feed tagged “Writing” or “Journalism” has a post about writer’s block somewhere in his history, so I guess it’s about time I joined the ranks. It’s no wonder, really, that so many writers are fixated on this bizarre and debilitating state of mind. There isn’t a cure for it; there’s no drug or therapy or acupuncture treatment that will magically stimulate creativity. It’s a phase, an inevitable dark side to the writer’s tortured mind.

In case you can’t tell, I’m still a little bitter about the hour wasted at work today, and it’s manifesting itself in the form of angst. Readers, I apologize.

This post isn’t just a melodramatic rant, though, so don’t abandon my blog in favor of mindless memes (although if you’re going to go down that route, I strongly encourage frustrated journalism cat). There is, amazingly enough, hope for even the most foregone of writer’s block victim’s.

It’s called a break.

My eyes were fizzling in their sockets by lunch time, but I still hadn’t made any progress on my story. I’d looked at photographs from my interview for inspiration, googled cow images, even tried to find poetry about cows online, to no avail. My word document was a jumbled mess of row after row of abandoned, half-finished sentences.

Then Trish popped her head in my office.

“Craig and I were going to do lunch at the Blue Bird today. A sort of celebration for surviving this crazy week. Wanna come? My treat!”

And what a treat it was. Little did Trish and Craig know that our little excursion down College Avenue was more than a meal for me (and lunch out is quite a treat for a summer intern, as any college student knows) – it was a brain saver.

A token of my lunch break!

Lunch was delightful, by the way. We clinked our glasses of diet coke to my third week on the job. We talked about the newspaper, the bureaucratic messiness of having to work under a parent company, Trish’s unusual love of antique outhouses and Craig’s passion for old guitars and his pre-Chestertown life. In honor of my first trip to the Blue Bird, Trish had the bartender sign a coaster for me as a souvenir.

When I came back to my office, everything was clear. Everything seemed brighter, sharper, as if my brain could finally process the sunlight streaming through my window as something beautiful and writing-worthy. As I browsed through my photos again, I started to relive my afternoon on the farm. I could feel the story come alive, and I noticed connections between the poetry in the photos and the words I’d transcribed from the interview. Suddenly, it all made sense.

I’m a bit of a workaholic; I crave productivity, and I like a tinge of stress in my daily life. It’s a blessing and a curse, really. As much as I love how the heaviness of a long day drugs me into a deep sleep at night, it can also wear me a bit thin.

I’m constantly relearning the lesson that rest is just as important as hard work when it comes to success. Whether it’s going out to lunch out with coworkers, cracking open a guilty pleasure read, or checking your Facebook wall, a little bit of non-work isn’t laziness: It’s self-preservation.

I think I might just treat myself to lunch at Sam’s next week…