Doors Close, Windows Open

A Window Opens

"You'll always pass failure on your way to success." Mickey Rooney

"So what makes you think you can write for a paper?" A throaty, Crusty the Clown merged Marge Simpson voice demanded.  Irene Schmircek's question cut right to point.  I was lucky to have gotten this Wednesday afternoon appointment with her. Mitch must have lobbied hard for me.

A lifetime of deadlines, long hours, and cigarettes had etched deep lines in her thin, sharp face.  The quick gray-green eyes that studied me from the top of brown bifocals were clear, direct, and in a hurry.  I handed her my two-page resume, which contained not a lick of experience as a professional or published writer.

"I used to write. I don't know if Mitch mentioned it, but I took first place in a UIL Ready-Writing competition my senior year in high school.  My junior year, I came in third place.  I took a couple of writing courses in college, including two journalism classes.  Professionally, I've written hundreds of reports, developed and delivered corporate training, and designed several presentations. Presented at a national conference once."

She glanced quickly through my resume.  Seeing no key words indicating practical experience with newspapers or online publications, she put my life's summary on the far edge of her desk, where the garbage waited just below.  I had a feeling those high-quality watermark pages were going straight into that bin the moment I left.

"Do you have any idea how many people who piddled with writing in school think they can write for publication?"  I shook my head, no.  I didn't have the stats on that.

"Well, I'll tell you.  Lots." Not quite the scientific answer I thought she'd give.  She spoke with the kind of authority that made you think she'd memorized every statistic ever published.

"So I'll ask again, what makes you think you are a reporter?"

"I don't know Irene.  Mitch remembered that I'd once been a good writer.  I remember once being a good writer.  And, I love to write, even if I haven't made money from it nor do I have a professional track record in this area.  I just want to give it a try."

"Uh-huh.  Show me your portfolio."

"My what?"

"Portfolio, you know, samples.  Published work, even if it's from college or high school."

I didn't expect this.  Why hadn't Mitch warned me about samples? "I don't have any to show you."

"Is that because you forgot, or because you just haven't published anything before?" she asked.

"I'm sorry, Irene, it's the latter," I said, as a red wave of mortification washed over my face.  "Look, if this is a waste of time, I'll go.  I think Mitch was just trying to be helpful.  You know, give a friend a break.  I'm not a published writer nor have I done any reporting.  I have no idea if I can write to your standards.  So sorry.  Thanks for your time," I said and stood up to leave.

"Hold up there cowgirl," Irene said, her voice softening a bit. "I didn't say I wouldn't give you a chance.  Mitch should have prepared you ... me ... both of us a little better.  We're in a pinch because one of our reporters called in with the flu this morning. He was supposed to cover an event on Friday night.  Think you could handle it?"

I don't know a thing about covering an event, my mind answered as my mouth said, "Yeah, sure, no problem!  What kind of event?"

"Charity ball," she answered and then looked closely at my appearance. "Even though you are reporting, you should, well, you know.  Look the part."  I had quickly dabbed on some mascara and a touch of eye liner, but was otherwise casual in a button down shirt and slacks.  Both were too big and did not project a tailored, professional image.  I knew I looked rumpled and reminded myself that I did need to buy some new clothes.

"Do me a favor, " Irene said as she rose to signal that our meeting was over, "Ask Mitchell to pull up a few archives written by Michael Talbott. You're covering for him on Friday. Get a sense of his style because that's what I'm looking for.  Do a good job, and I'll send you out on other assignments.  I'm guessing this is a side thing for you, you're not looking for a career here?"

"No.  I mean, yes.  This is a side thing.  I'm not looking for a full-time job." Did this mean I had the assignment? "Thanks Ms. uh, Irene.  Thanks so much!" I said, as I made my way out of her office to the open area.

"MITCHELL!" Irene called out the door as she lit a cigarette.  Mitch answered from his cubicle, "Yeah?" He took a moment, closed out whatever he was working on at his computer, and stood up.

"Take Ms. Peterson over the archives," Irene said, as small puffs of gray smoke punctuated her words, "Get her copies of Talbott's articles. Prep her for the event, where it is, what time, and for God's sake, what to wear."

Ouch.  I should have put more thought into my appearance before showing up.

"You gave her an assignment already?  That's terrific!" Mitch said.

"Yeah. But Mitchell, next time bring in new people, prepare them. She didn't even have writing samples.  I'm going on blind faith and desperation here, which I hate."

Mitch smiled.  Her reprimand didn't seem to put him off.  He smiled, said, "You won't regret it ma'am," and guided me to an office labeled "Archives."

"You'll get used to her ways," Mitch said when I mentioned that I didn't think Irene liked me.  "She's a softy underneath that steel exterior.  She had to develop a thick outer skin.  Being the editor in chief is a tough job, even in a small town.  She's extremely competent and very talented. She's got remarkable instincts. She would not have given you a shot if she hadn't sensed something in you."

"You speak highly of her.  I hope I do a good job."

"You will.  OK.  Let's pull up some articles by Talbott.  Give me minute to do a search... And let's see what we can find here.  A society wedding Talbott covered two weeks ago.  That's good.  Oh, here's a piece he did on the YMCA's fundraiser a few months back.  That's a strong article.  And here.  Guess what?  It's a copy of the article he wrote about the event you're covering, from last year.  Which reminds me, we should talk logistics."

After covering the where, when, and how long of the event, Mitch added, "As Irene said, you should dress for the ball as if you are attending.  Blending in will help people open up to you.  Take your cue for what to wear from the pictures in the article."

"Who takes the pictures?" I asked as I studied the pictures in Talbott's article.

"A professional photographer is working the event.  He'll send us his best shots and our editing department will decide which ones to use.  That said, you should snap your own shots.  That will help you write the story later. What else ... what am I missing?" Mitch asked, more of himself than me.

"Nothing that I can think of now," I said.

"Cool.  I guess the best advice I can offer is to get your facts straight.  Get there early, talk to the people who are running the event, write everything down, take clear notes, and ask for the correct spelling of people's names.  You can probably get a guest list from the hosts, but you'll need to make sure you have people's names exactly right if you feature them in the article. When you're talking to people, try to dig up interesting tidbits on notable participants to humanize the story.  Not too much, just enough.  You're on a word diet, so to speak, with a one thousand word limit, which goes fast.  You want the readers to care about this event and the attendees without boring them.  Talbott's good at that, follow his example.  Ah, and one more thing.  We'll need your piece by nine on Tuesday morning.  Can you handle that?" 

That would be hard since I worked full days Saturday through Tuesday.  I'd have to write in the evenings.  But it was only one thousand words.  How hard could that be?  "Not a problem," I answered.

"Good.  I think that covers it unless you have other questions?"  I shook my head "No," gave Mitch a hug and thanked him for the opportunity before getting in my car.  Driving home, my mind raced with the new possibilities this side job might offer.  I hadn't felt this alive in very long time.