A Journalist Reflects on Writing

As writers, we are chroniclers of history, ancient and future. Storytellers, we document a life, an event that forever changed a family…a death, a turn toward another path without looking back.

Writing is not a static experience, but one that begs to find the richness of detail…what did the person say, the aromas that permeated the hospital room, that final kiss a metaphor for life.

Writing is crucial now. We dive into the unknown and craft a compelling narrative, a chronicle of longing, and wishes, a testimony of what could be, never was: a marriage, a death, a political earthquake. The unexpected shock of a fifty-year right of women to hold dominion over their lives and bodies ended in one swift stroke of history that will be written and remembered for those who come after us.

Over the weekend, I watched the dystopian movie Civil War. It’s a film about photojournalists covering a civil war in the United States, somewhere in the future, somewhere soon. Whether you like the movie or not, it champions journalists capturing the unimaginable, that once-in-a-lifetime shot, never to come again. As a journalist, I felt proud of my profession and those who pursue it with tenacity and dedication.

Although it has been almost two decades since I saw my byline in a major newspaper, I never forget that journalism is a harsh mistress. It is a calling, not a career. Everything else in your life remains subservient to it. The movie reminded me of my twenty-odd years as a journalist. The manic intensity, the feeling of making a difference, the inability to get home and make dinner for my sons in service to the story, waiting for that call back from a source.

Looking back, I realize journalism enhanced my appreciation for what I do now. Creative writing performs a necessary function in my life, just as breathing. A walk down a wooded path becomes a moment to return home, “paint” the scene, and practice gratitude. The more complex aspects of my life that offer challenges become “turning points” for a possible novel that requires deep reflection, something I can devote time to without deadlines other than self-imposed ones.

That’s one of the lessons of being a journalist. There was little time for reflection, just moving on from one story to the next, but a mastery of language was required. Get to the point and get to it quickly. Paint the picture for your readers who might be inspired by your ability to craft a story that motivates them to go out and make changes in their communities through activism and education.

Even as a little girl, when I was nine or ten years old, I began keeping a diary, a companion of thoughts, snippets of poems, longings for the boy I had a crush on … following him down the hallway, past the metal lockers and water fountain, ducking my head when he looked in my direction. Writing about my childhood led to understanding why—and how—I became a writer. For years, I wrote, alone in my bedroom, the emptiness of being virtually an only child (an older brother left home when I was ten) crystallized with parents uninterested in children and childish activities. I needed my imagination to survive, something just for me.

Journalism offered the path forward after watching the Watergate hearings and reaching for The Washington Post first thing in the morning to see what those dedicated reporters Woodward and Bernstein had come up with, putting a nation in turmoil in context, moving the story forward as a narrative, not just a blow-by-blow account.

Writing is a canvas. The creative writer “paints” her meaning, just as the photojournalist captures one image, not another, and the reporter delves into the stories that matter. Writing is an adventure into the unexpected. Writing always was and continues to be my faithful companion-explorer. My childhood friend. My professional partner. My confidante in old age.

Writing is an adventure into the unexpected, a document of our times and lives. Listen, stay attuned, it whispers.