Tuesday, December 13, 2005
The Job
“Journalism is the art of capturing behaviour.”
Got that line out of an absolutely intriguing movie which I watched a couple of days ago: “Shattered Glass”. Based on a true story, the plot revolves around a promising young journalist by the name of Stephen Glass. With an unnerving knack for uncovering the most incredulous stories, the most sensational quotes, and being incredibly well-liked by his colleagues, Glass seemed on the way to ultimate journalistic success... till a chain of events revealed that most of his stories had in fact been either fully or partially fabricated. And lest you start thinking that he was writing for some trashy magazine that lacked credibility, he actually wrote for an extremely established political magazine and was a stringer for many other well-known publications. He got by the numerous fact checks by actually creating sources from scratch. If he required a website, he threw in what he knew of HTML and set up one; if his editor asked to speak to the newsmaker, he somehow managed to get someone to call him back. In short, he pretty much managed to fool his editors, colleagues and readers to think that he was truly the best at his craft.
Now hang on before you start thinking this is a movie review of such. On the contrary, I wanted to create a post about this totally fascinating line of work, and the movie merely gave me inspiration to do it. Alright, I know the plot of this particular movie isn’t exactly most appropriate to throw a positive light on a profession that I endear myself to. But watching the way the newsroom was run did bring back certain memories I had while doing my internships.
Some memories are so fantastic that I fear I'd do them injustice by putting them down in words. The excitement of that first by-line. The ecstasy of getting a page-one story. That cheap thrill of peeking over someone’s shoulder on the train to see them reading a story you wrote. I remember my nerves the first time I had to make interview someone of stature - the preparations of my “Hello” speech, how I was going to try to sound as intelligent as I could, the sighs of relief when I put down the phone, the satisfaction when I typed those quotes in, and that feeling when I finally saw them in print. I remember the sense of security of knowing you had a great editor - one that was not merely there to make your words sing, but one who really stood by and supported his reporters and photographers through thick and thin. I had one such editor. I remember the way he defended any reporter or photographer that got verbally or physically assaulted by newsmakers, and assured us that he would always back us up even if the company didn't. I remember those 3 consecutive nights we spent at the airport chasing a story, leaving only at about 5am. On one of those nights, that same editor came to drive us home, for fear that we’d be too tired, or have no other way of getting home. I remember that first Sting-Operation I did, where the newsmaker I had met was later found out to be a convicted pedophile. I remember the feelings we interns had just knowing that some of our friends and colleagues were in Iraq or Afghanistan covering the wars. And the conversations over coffee about whether we’d get our turn to go in the future. All that fear and excitement intertwined in the most indescribable fashion.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t also remember those long hours by the phones, waiting for the PR of some damn company to give you that last quote you need to finish the story. Those long waits with nothing to do and not able to go home as your editor tells you that he’s looking at your story, only to come back and hour later to say he was having dinner, and that he’ll look at it later. And when the story comes back, it’s full of holes you’d have to plug, which means another couple of hours or so in the office. I remember the phone calls from the office at 4am, with the copy editors yelling at you for a full ten minutes, asking you why you did not pick up your phone earlier, before saying that they just called to check the spelling of the name of someone mentioned in your story. The times that a story comes in an hour before you are set you meet a friend for dinner, and you know that you’d have to cancel all those plans.
And then there are those fun, quirky moments that don’t quite fit into either the boon or bane categories. Like the answering of the hotline calls that interns are sometimes assigned to do, the encounters of strange people calling in, asking for soccer and lottery results, the length of your hair, whether you are wearing a skirt, etc. That even stranger "shut up guy" who kept calling just to yell at us to er, shut up. And the equally strange guy who would call and tip us off with some incredible story, and later say his name was Michael Jackson. And that funny girl who thought that tipping us off with a story meant she could win a prize by telling us a joke she made up. The times when we tried to sneak out of the office at 6, and suddenly hearing the editor’s voice, “Oy! The sun hasn’t set, why are you leaving?” The times I got my work pass mixed up with my ezlink card and wondered why I could not get by the MRT gantry.
There is so much more I have yet to experience in this fascinating line of work. Yet as it is, I’m still unsure if I want to do this as a career, or whether I’d even qualify academic-wise, personality-wise and stamina-wise. It sure isn’t an easy job; the hours are unpredictable and demanding, the deadlines unnerving. In fact, it’s a job with an insane amount of responsibility. To the journalist, it is just another story. Another work day in another work week. Another article to file up in the portfolio. But to the newsmaker, it is his LIFE.
Truly, journalism is an art of capturing another human’s behaviour, another human’s life. Yet, there are also limits to what one should reveal and what should be kept private. Intertwined with all this is that adrenaline rush in meeting deadlines, the challenge of meeting people from all walks of life, the lack of predictability in a day’s work, and so much more. Somehow, I just want to experience it all over again. And again. And again.
Journalists often have that front row seat in the creation of history. Save me one.
“Journalism is the art of capturing behaviour.”
Got that line out of an absolutely intriguing movie which I watched a couple of days ago: “Shattered Glass”. Based on a true story, the plot revolves around a promising young journalist by the name of Stephen Glass. With an unnerving knack for uncovering the most incredulous stories, the most sensational quotes, and being incredibly well-liked by his colleagues, Glass seemed on the way to ultimate journalistic success... till a chain of events revealed that most of his stories had in fact been either fully or partially fabricated. And lest you start thinking that he was writing for some trashy magazine that lacked credibility, he actually wrote for an extremely established political magazine and was a stringer for many other well-known publications. He got by the numerous fact checks by actually creating sources from scratch. If he required a website, he threw in what he knew of HTML and set up one; if his editor asked to speak to the newsmaker, he somehow managed to get someone to call him back. In short, he pretty much managed to fool his editors, colleagues and readers to think that he was truly the best at his craft.
Now hang on before you start thinking this is a movie review of such. On the contrary, I wanted to create a post about this totally fascinating line of work, and the movie merely gave me inspiration to do it. Alright, I know the plot of this particular movie isn’t exactly most appropriate to throw a positive light on a profession that I endear myself to. But watching the way the newsroom was run did bring back certain memories I had while doing my internships.
Some memories are so fantastic that I fear I'd do them injustice by putting them down in words. The excitement of that first by-line. The ecstasy of getting a page-one story. That cheap thrill of peeking over someone’s shoulder on the train to see them reading a story you wrote. I remember my nerves the first time I had to make interview someone of stature - the preparations of my “Hello” speech, how I was going to try to sound as intelligent as I could, the sighs of relief when I put down the phone, the satisfaction when I typed those quotes in, and that feeling when I finally saw them in print. I remember the sense of security of knowing you had a great editor - one that was not merely there to make your words sing, but one who really stood by and supported his reporters and photographers through thick and thin. I had one such editor. I remember the way he defended any reporter or photographer that got verbally or physically assaulted by newsmakers, and assured us that he would always back us up even if the company didn't. I remember those 3 consecutive nights we spent at the airport chasing a story, leaving only at about 5am. On one of those nights, that same editor came to drive us home, for fear that we’d be too tired, or have no other way of getting home. I remember that first Sting-Operation I did, where the newsmaker I had met was later found out to be a convicted pedophile. I remember the feelings we interns had just knowing that some of our friends and colleagues were in Iraq or Afghanistan covering the wars. And the conversations over coffee about whether we’d get our turn to go in the future. All that fear and excitement intertwined in the most indescribable fashion.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t also remember those long hours by the phones, waiting for the PR of some damn company to give you that last quote you need to finish the story. Those long waits with nothing to do and not able to go home as your editor tells you that he’s looking at your story, only to come back and hour later to say he was having dinner, and that he’ll look at it later. And when the story comes back, it’s full of holes you’d have to plug, which means another couple of hours or so in the office. I remember the phone calls from the office at 4am, with the copy editors yelling at you for a full ten minutes, asking you why you did not pick up your phone earlier, before saying that they just called to check the spelling of the name of someone mentioned in your story. The times that a story comes in an hour before you are set you meet a friend for dinner, and you know that you’d have to cancel all those plans.
And then there are those fun, quirky moments that don’t quite fit into either the boon or bane categories. Like the answering of the hotline calls that interns are sometimes assigned to do, the encounters of strange people calling in, asking for soccer and lottery results, the length of your hair, whether you are wearing a skirt, etc. That even stranger "shut up guy" who kept calling just to yell at us to er, shut up. And the equally strange guy who would call and tip us off with some incredible story, and later say his name was Michael Jackson. And that funny girl who thought that tipping us off with a story meant she could win a prize by telling us a joke she made up. The times when we tried to sneak out of the office at 6, and suddenly hearing the editor’s voice, “Oy! The sun hasn’t set, why are you leaving?” The times I got my work pass mixed up with my ezlink card and wondered why I could not get by the MRT gantry.
There is so much more I have yet to experience in this fascinating line of work. Yet as it is, I’m still unsure if I want to do this as a career, or whether I’d even qualify academic-wise, personality-wise and stamina-wise. It sure isn’t an easy job; the hours are unpredictable and demanding, the deadlines unnerving. In fact, it’s a job with an insane amount of responsibility. To the journalist, it is just another story. Another work day in another work week. Another article to file up in the portfolio. But to the newsmaker, it is his LIFE.
Truly, journalism is an art of capturing another human’s behaviour, another human’s life. Yet, there are also limits to what one should reveal and what should be kept private. Intertwined with all this is that adrenaline rush in meeting deadlines, the challenge of meeting people from all walks of life, the lack of predictability in a day’s work, and so much more. Somehow, I just want to experience it all over again. And again. And again.
Journalists often have that front row seat in the creation of history. Save me one.
# posted by Mel @ 10:39 PM 
