Reconstructing Stacey

An end to writer’s block?

I know, I know, this blog is evidence of my literary constipation. What can I say? I’ve been busy. Uninspired. Really happy. All of the above.

I’m taking this writing class through the Poynter Institute’s News University, which offers a huge variety of online courses about all things journalism (writing, editing, podcasting, photography, headlines, captions, etc.). My editor agreed to pay the $400 course fee, so I really want to get a lot out of the experience, share it with my colleagues and feel stronger for pumping some journalistic iron.

This afternoon I completed a 5-part exercise that helps us focus our stories. The thinking is that if you can’t succinctly answer — what’s the story really about? Why does it matter? — then you can’t possibly craft a compelling, informative or engaging story, regardless of how interesting or strange the subject matter.
So we had to do these really tough writing exercises today in which we were allotted 20-30 seconds for each of a series of 5 questions. No rewrites or second guessing. Just unrefined thoughts. 

This is really difficult for me because I’m a methodical writer. I write a sentence, then I reread the sentence, then I rewrite the sentence, then I write another one and repeat the process. It can be excruciating when I’m not in the mood to write (but have to since I have no choice in this field of work). But when I am in the mood to write, I love the picking and choosing that accompanies my writing process. I love asking myself: What is the best word? Can I find a better word? Yes! And I love how that tweak can transform a sentence.

In this writing class, however, the teacher wants us to practice freewriting, a process by which we lower our standards and simply write. No spell check. No deleting. No rereading and rewriting. No excuses. Just write, write, write. He told us in a podcast that “reporters are often surprised at their raw eloquence.” The idea is that if you lower your standards (at first) you silence your inner critic, thereby allowing yourself to flourish as a writer.

I’ve decided that, starting July 1, I will blog everyday I have computer access (some upcoming travels will find me totally unplugged) and I will write these entries by freewriting for 20 minutes at a time. I'm even going to time myself. 

I need to do this for a few reasons. One, I have been such a slacker here at Reconstructing Stacey and want to reconnect with my blog’s voice; two, I need extra non-work writing practice to grease the wheels of my new writing bike; and three, it sounds fun. And really hard. Diligence is not my color.

Beginning tomorrow, the words you read here might feel a bit rough around the edges. Please pardon the construction.

Back where I started

This has been a difficult month. I've been inside my head a lot, trying to figure out what I want to be and where I want to be and how I can get there. Consequently, I've felt lonely, despondent, frustrated, restless, lost, stuck, unsure of where or whom to turn to other than within.

For months, I have told myself I'm done with journalism, that it no longer satisfies me, that I want to do something else.  I've scoured the Internet looking for another path. I've researched graduate programs in education and social work; teaching fellowships, craigslist and various job boards. It seems like at least once a week I call my parents with a new idea of how to find meaning in my professional life. I could get an MSW! I could be a community organizer! I could study public policy! I could teach high school! My dad has helped support my new curiosities by sending me links to jobs. His emails all have subjects like: "Dream job" or "this is so you!"

Meanwhile, I had flashbacks: I'm cleaning out my desk in the Courier newsroom, organizing files for my successor and sorting the good pens (ie. those I will take) from the bad (ie. those I'll leave behind). Almost everyone's gone home. And PK, working late as usual and clad in pleated corduroys and an out-of-shape droopy sweater, comes over to my desk, runs his hands through his mussed black hair, and says to me: Don't ever lose your fire. You've got something special. Don't let anyone kill it.

The exchange has played over and over in my mind. Because I really thought  my fire had died, leaving behind embers languishing under a cloud of smoke. I didn't know how to get it burning again. I couldn't find a match, and I felt like a failure. I thought the only solution was to regroup and start anew, hence the job/graduate school search.

And then. Something (actually, three things) miraculous happened last week.

a) I read an unbelievably moving story that reminded me why I got into journalism and why I have been so reluctant to leave. I found out the writer lived in San Francisco. I contacted him and he agreed to meet me for coffee Monday evening (tonight).

b) A friend sent me a link to a series of clips on YouTube (which can be found here in one video), in which Ira Glass, the host of This American Life, talks about storytelling. I am not exaggerating when I say that it kicked me in the ass and knocked me on the ground. Here's an excerpt ( I recommend watching the whole interview, but this gem starts around minute 9):

"All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste ... And it's like there's a gap, that for the first couple of years, what you're making, it's really not that great. It's trying to be good, it has ambition to be good, but it's not quite that good. But your taste, what got you into the game, your taste is still killer, and your taste is so good that you can tell that what you're making is kind of a disappointment to you ... A lot of people never make it past that phase. A lot of people at that point, they quit. And the thing I'd like to say to you with all my heart is that most everybody I know who does interesting and creative work went through a phase, sometimes of years, where they had really good taste but what they were making wasn't that good, it fell short ... Everybody goes through it. You gotta know it's totally normal. And the most important thing you can possibly do is do a lot of work .... It's only by actually going through a volume of work that you can catch up and close that gap, and the work you're making will be as good as your ambitions."

I mean, holy shit, right? It's almost obvious, in a way. Journalism is a craft. And like any craft (art, music, literature, carpentry), it takes time to develop skill. It takes failing and feeling frustrated and making mistakes before anything really brilliant can emerge. I needed to be reminded that just because I feel stunted journalistically is not a reason to give up.

c) I called a different friend to dissect my crazy state of mind and journalistic discoveries. I told him I was lost and frustrated: I think I'm realizing what I want to create but am unsure of how to get there, that the normal channels have failed me, so now what? And guess what? He 100-percent sympathized with me, and explained how frustrated he is too, and that a few months ago, at the height of his frustration, he got so frustrated he applied for a PR job, which he didn't pursue. He's since found more steady journalistic work, but questioning himself and the craft all the time. And here I thought I was the only one.

Ok, so all this happened in a three day period, and I realized that I don't want to do "something else." I mean, I do, in the sense that I don't want to do the kind of writing I'm currently doing. But I don't want to not work as a journalist. I don't want to give up on this craft or this work, which for me is not a job, but a responsibility, a calling. All that has been overshadowed by the vile workplace in which I currently clock in and out. It sucks that my current job has crushed what I love. But at least I've figured out there is something to salvage among the wreckage.

So I'm back where I began.

It's certainly possible I'll change my mind. In the past 6 months, I've convinced myself I want to do 271 other things, and yes, I'd probably be good at a few other things. But I want to be great at this one thing that I love so much. I'm not ready to give up on journalism. I'm ready to do different journalism, not leave it completely.

So now what, you wonder? I've got some ideas. But first I need to get some sleep.

 

Into the woods

I spent 24+ hours at a Jewish overnight camp last month. Of course, the trip was motivated by a story assignment. It was published Friday. Click on the link below the photo (my favorite -- of a camper saying the Sh'ma -- that somehow didn't make it into publication) to read the piece.

CLICK ME

I draw your attention to this story because it was totally new for me as a writer, reporter and photographer. I've never spent 24 hours on site, nor have I ever written a long feature in the first person, nor have I ever blended journalism with editorial as a storytelling technique. I think it turned out well. And since, sadly, I've received almost no feedback on it yet (It's always the stories you slave over that fail to spark letter-writing) maybe you can let me know what you think.

If journalism was a buffet made by my Jewish grandmother

For the past five days, from 8:30 a.m. to about 10 p.m., I soaked up as much information as I could about Judaism, journalism and the many ways they intersect. I was one of 17 lucky participants in a fellowship for Jewish journalists at Brandeis University, just outside of Boston. It was the real deal. I took approximately 30 pages of notes. Well-known scholars, professors and Jewish leaders talked to us at great length about a hundred different things. We went to a mikveh. We slept in dorms and stayed up late playing cards and teaching the over-35 participants about the time-wasting joys of Facebook and MySpace.

I'm still digesting everything I learned, not yet ready to explain exactly where the turning wheels in my brain will take me once I return to San Francisco. However, I have concluded two major things.

One: Jewish journalism, for the first time, is not about limitations. For the past 10 months, I've thought only about what I can't do because I'm writing for a Jewish press. I now see opportunities for storytelling because I am writing for a Jewish press.

I hate to admit it, but here's the truth: I took this latest job because I wanted to live in San Francisco. I knew the change would be personally enriching, but professionally? Well, I doubted that very much. There is such elitism in the daily newspaper world, and though none of my colleagues ever criticized my choice, I knew deep down they wondered why I would take a "step back." I asked myself the same question. I wondered if I had made a mistake, leaving a profession and a rhythm that had dictated all of my major life choices since graduating from college. Would I regret it? Would I continue to grow as a writer? And if I wanted to go back to dailies, would I be accepted for my writerly shift?

But now, for the first time, I understand this school of thought is wrong. I didn't take a step back. I took a step in a different direction, one that I finally see has a lot to teach me.

I also see that there is great work happening in the Jewish journalism world. Of course we're all burdened with having to write -- what I like to call -- non-story stories (you know, the ones about the 80-year-olds winning awards for giving $36 a year to Federation for the past 200 years), but we also want and do tell unique, powerful stories that have real meaning to those who read them. I am proud to be a part of this fellowship. I am excited to go back to work with an arsenal of new story ideas and a new attitude.

This notion of fellowship brings me to my second point, which is this: Jewish journalists support each other in a way that I don't think daily news reporters do. I don't mean inside the newsroom --  I always felt that at the IDS, Courier and Herald, my colleagues were teammates I could count on for anything. What I'm referring to is the larger world, beyond the particular newsroom in 50613 or 99336. With the exception of the edu writer's listserv I was a part of last year, I have always felt a quiet competition among daily reporters. When I attend journalism conferences, I'm accustomed to feeling like I have to prove myself, that everyone else is trying to do the same. It is exhausting. And yet at the Gralla seminar, I never felt like that. I never felt like I had to share about the latest front page enterprise story I wrote, or the scandal I uncovered at last night's school board meeting, or the 3-day series that won some in-the-long-run forgettable SPJ award, to demonstrate my talent and ambition. I just felt accepted.  The fellows treated one another with respect, listened to each other with great interest. Several people even praised my question-asking skills, which was a tremendous compliment.

So, while I can't yet explain how I'll use the nuts and bolts of what I learned, I can say that it's given me a new perspective. And for that, especially that, I am grateful.
 

Proud

I took a 3-minute power nap on the train tonight. A transvestite had sat down next to me while I slept. He wore a mini skirt that showed off his super skinny legs. As he ate a chocolate chip cookie, I noticed his huge, French-manicured hands. He then sipped on a small McDonald's soda, his lipstick on the tip of the straw. His hair was an awful shade of auburn. It clashed with his tanning-bed skin. But I had to smile.

This woman/man was probably finishing up a long day partying downtown at Pride 2007. I myself made my way down to the gay pride street fair in the late afternoon. Due to the fact that explaining the festival in words would diminish its craziness, I will simply refer you to my online photo album.

But I will say this. Pride 2007 is San Francisco at its gayest, wildest and nudest. I saw so many boobs and asses today. Especially in "leather alley," a section of the street fair in which I also saw a woman lean over, bare-assed, while a hairy man wearing a leather vest smacked her butt until it turned pink. I am not making this up. Then, I saw a sign that said "SM Demos, $3." Evidently, a raunchier display of someone's sexual fantasy/perversion was inside a gated area. I didn't feel like waiting in line. Plus, the ass-slapping was disturbing enough. I really didn't need to see what was behind Door No. 1.

Afterward, I went for a bike ride through Golden Gate Park. On really sunny days the park smells even more like eucalyptus. I'd venture to say that everyone who didn't go to Pride was outside in the park. I rode by groups of people playing Frisbee, listening to Madonna, roller skating, sunbathing, reading, meditating. And I realized that San Francisco is absolutely the happiest city on earth. No doubt in my mind. Happy-est. People are true to themselves here, encouraged to embrace their quirks, weirdness, individuality. The city feels a little magical on days like today.

Also, may cat is curled up in a ball right now and snoring. I love him.

25 cents for 7 minutes

The laundromat is an amazing place.

I had to wash a friend's sleeping bag tonight because she's highly allergic to my cat, and it had been in various rooms in our house for the past few months, which is to say that it was covered in dander. The laundromat at Hayes and Webster was only two blocks from my apartment. So down the hill I go, detergent and green Coleman in tow.

When I know the sleeping bag is ready to go into the dryer, I go back to the laundromat. It's 9:42 p.m. Apparently, the place closes at 10 p.m., a small but important detail I didn't realize before I decided to do laundry somewhat late at night. I put my stuff in the drier anyway. Now it's 9:50. In walks a short, slender Asian man in a royal blue fleece, sweat pants and sneakers, and begins cleaning up. Everyone else has left. When I ask him if I can let the drier go a bit past 10, he smiles and tells me that of course, no problem, he has a lot of scrubbing/mopping/straightening to do.

We get to talking. I ask him if he grew up in San Francisco. Sort of, he says. Then: I was a boat boy. I shoot him a quizzical look. He continues. He tells me that when he was 8 years old, following the Vietnam war, he got on a boat by himself. His dad had already fled the country, his mom wasn't well enough to flee, and he'd had enough of the poverty and sadness that the war generated. The boat was a simple fishing boat. After three days and two nights without food or water, sandwiched between about 50 other people, he landed in Singapore. Authorities put him in a refugee camp. Since he was alone, he was placed with another family. He was shuffled between four families during the month he spent in the refugee camp. Somehow, his father, who had left for Indonesia one year prior, sends word that he wants Kon (I'm just guessing this is how you spell it) to come to Indonesia. He was sick of the refugee camp anyway. Within a few weeks, father and son are on another boat, this one bound for San Francisco.

He did everything immigrants (and by that I mean Americans, because at some point, we were all immigrants) are supposed to do. He graduated from high school. He went to college. He chose a respectable field — mechanical engineering — and worked for nine years in a job that he never really liked. He turned around one day and his son was somehow 7 years old. And then he quit his job, the one he never liked, the one that had become monotonous and unfulfilling with its annual 2.3 percent raises. He bought a coin laundromat. Then another. And then he bought a third.

His daughter is one. He sees her all the time. He's not rich, he tells me, but he's comfortable. His wife works as an a nurse in the labor and delivery wing at a local hospital. She works the graveyard shift. So he sees her a lot, too. He's his own boss. He's happy.

And I know all of this because I kept putting in quarters for 7 more minutes of drier time 30 minutes after he was supposed to have closed up shop. He cleaned and talked, I listened.

I learned several things from this encounter. One, I am a journalist because it's in my DNA, not because it's on my business cards. It doesn't really matter if I stick with this profession or not. It will stick with me, even if I walk down a different avenue. I can't not tell stories. They lurk being all the earth's nooks and crannies, and I think my life's purpose is to tell these stories in any way I can, whether it's through this blog, as someone's staff reporter or as a freelance writer.

Two, it only sorta matters what kind of work you do. This guy, he owns a coin laundromat. But he has freedom, flexibility and the ability to see his loved ones whenever he wants. That's gotta be as valuable, if not more-so, than any high-profile career.

Related: Compelling story from the LA Times about a Vietnamese woman's search for her son.