Friday, April 25

Just about every time I look at a newspaper I think about how I used to work for one. I see mistakes, I think of better headlines, and I miss the days when, in my tiny little microcosm of a town, I would be sent to cover plays, concerts, art exhibits, board of education meetings, city council meetings, county commission meetings, car accidents, robberies, fires, and just about everything else imaginable, from birth to death and everything in between. Once I wrote a story for newspaper week, and the title of my story was "Newspapers: From Birth to Death and Everything In Between." I wrote, edited, took lousy pictures, developed and scanned photos, learned PhotoShop and Quark Express, and put together the pages on the computer and got them ready to go to the press. After I stopped working there, it was difficult to read anything without editing it in my head. My mind was programmed to omit unnecessary words, correct spelling and grammar, and think in active voice. Now, I only catch major mistakes. So much time has gone by since I left the newspaper job that the time I spent there is only a tiny fraction of my life (about 1/9th). I have spent more time than that, after that, in my current vocation, which isn't even close to being fun but somehow is held to a higher societal value, even though it impacts less people and tends to suck the life out of everyone involved (no, I am not an embalmer, but metaphorically close).