The Newsroom
Despite working in a busy newsroom, surrounded by journalists, I loathe the kind of writing I do at work. But lately I’ve come to a place of peace with understanding that what I do for money is not what I do for love. I’ve conflated these for the past thirty years. I suppose some people never uncouple them. The more tenured I get, the less and less I write, focusing on making fewer words matter more. What I do for money all sounds very exciting to others. Working in a vibrant, well-known newsroom, with influence over how the news is consumed by millions of people every day. Of being part of how history gets reported. All of this is true, and I do feel a swelling pride every time I talk about what I do all day. I enjoy the trappings of the corner office and being in the room where it happens. But it’s where I am, not who I am. I’m not naive enough to know that I will get to a place where I can write all day. Even though with retirement looming that feels more like a probable, wonderful reality. I’m not concerned with anyone else reading what I write. I crave neither audience nor recognition. I write for me. I love to send what I write to the printer in an edition of one. I bask in the growing shelf of these single editions. But, as the play Hamilton repeats, I write like I’m running out of time. There are so many things I want to write. So many things I want my daughter to read one day about her dad. So the question is really, if not now, when?
