See, the thing about writing is you are either called for it, admire it, or just born to simply manipulate words into beautiful stories. My mentor-mother, does not fully agree with this comment, but I do.

How I do it.

I sit at home  on a wooden dining room table with my cell phone on silent, looking down every now and then hoping some hot guy has sent me a message or at least called. My eyes are always  glued to the computer screen, but a worry Monkey stays on my back. I worry about if, I am staying true to the person who trusted me to share their story. I worry about what the mean-spirited commentators would say.  I just worry.

More so with death stories.

I don’t think people realize that as a journalist or a good journalist, we have to re-live the incident. We think about the people we are writing about before we put the pencil to paper or the keys to the keyboard. You can call it what you want, but I do believe that a journalist has to become that person, then leave that person to capture that story. Maybe because it is 3:31 am that I am thinking about this.

Stay with me.

Don’t get me wrong, I love being a journalist. I love piecing together beautiful stories that you can read.

Sometimes, I get lonely, but like a caged animal this is what I was meant to do. I try to run, but it always finds its way back to me. I try to convince myself that may be, just may be, I am not that good.  I am reminded everyday that God lives in me and through him I can do anything. To be honest, I just want to be a good journalist.

This is why.

I want to always stay loyal and true to my reader. And, treat this like it is brain surgery, not exactly on the same page but trust me it is similar in more ways than you will ever know. Well, okay, okay, let me explain. We have to take our time, just like doctors. We need nurses, but we call ours editors. We can  save people’s life too. Think health writers, science writers and news writers.

Yours Truly:)

Xoxox,

The Writer

Here is something rather bothersome. It seems the Good Ole’ Boyz have yet another tactic up their sleeve. But this is low, and down-right sad.  What do you think about this article?

Yours Truly,

IAJ

I loved you from the day you were born, and now you can’t give me a job. What’s up with that?

Who was trying to protect you when  Gannett and McClatchy ate you for lunch?  Me. I came to your rescue, and even convinced them you were worthy.  And, when your stories left you for the Internet, and every Joe Schmo with a computer could make you a hobby, I was in the trenches studying you, getting a degree, learning about how to write a captivating lead.

And remember the time, when your great great grandfather “the Paper” was terminally ill, and Media Conglomerates wanted to pull the plug? I introduced you to your second husband, Mr. Blogger, who was born and raised on the Internet. This was before Leonard Pitts made you look like a fresh young prostitute with his sizzling columns that always made you look a size smaller. And, Mitch Albom, fed you steak, and shrimp on Tuesdays with Morrie.

Both of them treated you like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, and you have the prizes to prove it.

Journalism, I love you, and always will, but you have crossed the line. And if this continues, I will be forced to leave you completely to write flowery novels.