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Wait, Journalists Report?
by Aimee Rawlins
It was a crisp Sunday afternoon in September, and I walked through the East Village, my heart beating faster with every block. Past Tompkins Square Park, down 9th Street, Avenue C, practically to the projects – scanning faces, street signs, store fronts –anything that might provide a story.
The assignment was to find a story – any story – in the neighborhood that we were covering, and I told myself that I couldn’t go back into my apartment until I had done it. That was two hours ago.
The thought of walking up to strangers and asking about their life was terrifying. There was a mom sitting on a stoop while her kids tossed a ball on the sidewalk. That might have potential … But I continued walking. Some men gathered outside a bodega … Again, my body refused to listen to my brain that was screaming: Just talk to someone! You have to do it!
I walked and walked, becoming increasingly frustrated and panicked with each block that yielded nothing. Finally I walked by a maroon awning with the words “Psychic Crystal Readings,” with red neon signs adding “TAROT CARDS” and “PALM READER” in each window.
That could be interesting … A psychic’s perspective on how the East Village has changed and what her clientele is like …
I walked by several times, summoning the courage to knock on the door and go inside.
When I finally did, the experience only got worse. Amanda Petro, or “Gina” as her card read, would only answer my questions about the neighborhood after I let her do a reading. While the sign outside advertised $5, she insisted that I pay $15 if I wanted anything even remotely accurate. Desperate for the interview, I agreed. I probably would have paid a lot more just to be done.
Whether she had uncanny psychic abilities, or was just reading the sheer desperation on my face, she ‘sensed’ that I was surrounded by negative energy and promised that a mere $75 worth of crystals would dispel it. While I did feel negative energy emanating from every pore, I attempted to graciously decline the offer, knowing that all the crystals in the world wouldn’t protect me from my professor’s wrath when I returned with no story.
By the time I got around to asking my questions, she was sullen, answering in short, monosyllabic phrases while trying to keep her two children from running around the room. (I could see her living room through a crack in the door and her small children scampered back and forth.)
I finally escaped to actually write the story, which, appropriately, was also an abysmal failure.
When I got the paper back, my professor had marked at least half the paragraphs with, “I don’t care. I don’t care. What’s the point? I don’t care,” along with a general comment that it was “very thin and overwritten. You let her off the hook. Don’t be afraid to ask people questions.”
Here’s the thing: I was afraid to ask people questions. I considered myself a writer, not a reporter and somehow I had come to journalism school thinking that I could be one without the other. I had never liked talking to strangers – I had always been slightly uncomfortable with people who I didn’t know – and, while I loved the process of writing, it was physically agonizing to approach these people for the sake of a story.
I spent three years at the University of Puget Sound working on our campus newspaper, primarily as an editor where I could pick and choose my assignments. I doled out the stories that focused on unfamiliar subjects or that required an obnoxious amount of interviews, tending towards soft features and arts related pieces. Commentary was even better; I could simply write my opinion and didn’t need to interview anyone! Consequently, while my editing skills improved, my interviewing skills did not.
After spending two years post-graduation at a publishing company, I made the arduous decision to attend graduate school. I hoped to circumvent the grind of “beat reporting” at a local newspaper by obtaining my master’s degree and ending up at a magazine, where I amusingly believed that interviewing would be completely different, if not irrelevant altogether.
It was a delusion that was quickly dispelled as my classmates and I were sent out in Manhattan to interview subway musicians, police officers, and the ever elusive “man on the street.”
It was hell.
Sometimes I worked past my fear of strangers and sometimes I didn’t, in which case I would attempt to write a story based purely on my descriptive prowess, which, for the record, is a bad, bad idea. Particularly when the assignment is to cover the Halloween Parade and the final piece lacks a single quote from any of the thousands who attended. My professor was livid, and I acutely felt her disappointment. I knew I had to push myself and was determined to prove that I was not inept. Miraculously this determination carried me through the New York Marathon, where I forced myself to stay in Central Park until I had found an interview subject worthy of the “colorful anecdote” we were ordered to obtain.
I left the park feeling exhilarated – both from my fantastic interview and from knowing that I had successfully trounced the terrified voice inside of me. Yes, it took three hours in the freezing cold, but I had done it.
This process lasted the entire semester – just as I completed a successful interview, I would get handed a new assignment that was accompanied by a fresh wave of fears. But somehow I survived, and ended up with glowing reviews from the professor who had scrawled “I DON’T CARE” all over my dreadful story.
It’s still painful to approach strangers for a story, and my heart beats at about twice the normal rate when I even pick up the phone to call a source. To the great detriment of my stories, I still put off interviews until the last possible second and avoid situations that require me to just walk up and introduce myself with questions.
It probably doesn’t sound like I have come very far, but in truth, I have. Part of the process is just figuring out what works for me: wandering around the East Village looking for someone to interview isn’t really my strong point; pre-arranging interview times with potential sources produces significantly less panic. The rest of it is just acknowledging the reality: I really don’t like interviewing. But if I want to be a journalist, I have to get over it. We’ve been told that it really does get easier with each interview we do, and I repeat that to myself when I’m anxiety-ridden. If you want to be a journalist, you have to do this.
Which, by the way, is the greatest thing I’ve learned so far: I do, actually, want to be a journalist. And not just the elusive non-interviewing magazine kind from my dreams either.
It was a crisp Sunday afternoon in September, and I walked through the East Village, my heart beating faster with every block. Past Tompkins Square Park, down 9th Street, Avenue C, practically to the projects – scanning faces, street signs, store fronts –anything that might provide a story.
The assignment was to find a story – any story – in the neighborhood that we were covering, and I told myself that I couldn’t go back into my apartment until I had done it. That was two hours ago.
The thought of walking up to strangers and asking about their life was terrifying. There was a mom sitting on a stoop while her kids tossed a ball on the sidewalk. That might have potential … But I continued walking. Some men gathered outside a bodega … Again, my body refused to listen to my brain that was screaming: Just talk to someone! You have to do it!
I walked and walked, becoming increasingly frustrated and panicked with each block that yielded nothing. Finally I walked by a maroon awning with the words “Psychic Crystal Readings,” with red neon signs adding “TAROT CARDS” and “PALM READER” in each window.
That could be interesting … A psychic’s perspective on how the East Village has changed and what her clientele is like …
I walked by several times, summoning the courage to knock on the door and go inside.
When I finally did, the experience only got worse. Amanda Petro, or “Gina” as her card read, would only answer my questions about the neighborhood after I let her do a reading. While the sign outside advertised $5, she insisted that I pay $15 if I wanted anything even remotely accurate. Desperate for the interview, I agreed. I probably would have paid a lot more just to be done.
Whether she had uncanny psychic abilities, or was just reading the sheer desperation on my face, she ‘sensed’ that I was surrounded by negative energy and promised that a mere $75 worth of crystals would dispel it. While I did feel negative energy emanating from every pore, I attempted to graciously decline the offer, knowing that all the crystals in the world wouldn’t protect me from my professor’s wrath when I returned with no story.
By the time I got around to asking my questions, she was sullen, answering in short, monosyllabic phrases while trying to keep her two children from running around the room. (I could see her living room through a crack in the door and her small children scampered back and forth.)
I finally escaped to actually write the story, which, appropriately, was also an abysmal failure.
When I got the paper back, my professor had marked at least half the paragraphs with, “I don’t care. I don’t care. What’s the point? I don’t care,” along with a general comment that it was “very thin and overwritten. You let her off the hook. Don’t be afraid to ask people questions.”
Here’s the thing: I was afraid to ask people questions. I considered myself a writer, not a reporter and somehow I had come to journalism school thinking that I could be one without the other. I had never liked talking to strangers – I had always been slightly uncomfortable with people who I didn’t know – and, while I loved the process of writing, it was physically agonizing to approach these people for the sake of a story.
I spent three years at the University of Puget Sound working on our campus newspaper, primarily as an editor where I could pick and choose my assignments. I doled out the stories that focused on unfamiliar subjects or that required an obnoxious amount of interviews, tending towards soft features and arts related pieces. Commentary was even better; I could simply write my opinion and didn’t need to interview anyone! Consequently, while my editing skills improved, my interviewing skills did not.
After spending two years post-graduation at a publishing company, I made the arduous decision to attend graduate school. I hoped to circumvent the grind of “beat reporting” at a local newspaper by obtaining my master’s degree and ending up at a magazine, where I amusingly believed that interviewing would be completely different, if not irrelevant altogether.
It was a delusion that was quickly dispelled as my classmates and I were sent out in Manhattan to interview subway musicians, police officers, and the ever elusive “man on the street.”
It was hell.
Sometimes I worked past my fear of strangers and sometimes I didn’t, in which case I would attempt to write a story based purely on my descriptive prowess, which, for the record, is a bad, bad idea. Particularly when the assignment is to cover the Halloween Parade and the final piece lacks a single quote from any of the thousands who attended. My professor was livid, and I acutely felt her disappointment. I knew I had to push myself and was determined to prove that I was not inept. Miraculously this determination carried me through the New York Marathon, where I forced myself to stay in Central Park until I had found an interview subject worthy of the “colorful anecdote” we were ordered to obtain.
I left the park feeling exhilarated – both from my fantastic interview and from knowing that I had successfully trounced the terrified voice inside of me. Yes, it took three hours in the freezing cold, but I had done it.
This process lasted the entire semester – just as I completed a successful interview, I would get handed a new assignment that was accompanied by a fresh wave of fears. But somehow I survived, and ended up with glowing reviews from the professor who had scrawled “I DON’T CARE” all over my dreadful story.
It’s still painful to approach strangers for a story, and my heart beats at about twice the normal rate when I even pick up the phone to call a source. To the great detriment of my stories, I still put off interviews until the last possible second and avoid situations that require me to just walk up and introduce myself with questions.
It probably doesn’t sound like I have come very far, but in truth, I have. Part of the process is just figuring out what works for me: wandering around the East Village looking for someone to interview isn’t really my strong point; pre-arranging interview times with potential sources produces significantly less panic. The rest of it is just acknowledging the reality: I really don’t like interviewing. But if I want to be a journalist, I have to get over it. We’ve been told that it really does get easier with each interview we do, and I repeat that to myself when I’m anxiety-ridden. If you want to be a journalist, you have to do this.
Which, by the way, is the greatest thing I’ve learned so far: I do, actually, want to be a journalist. And not just the elusive non-interviewing magazine kind from my dreams either.
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