There are six months of my life that went by so far they sometimes seem like a blur but at the same time were extremely integral to who I am today. In fact, when any aspiring writers ask me how to get started in journalism, I advise two things – pay attention in your college newswriting class and secondly, get a job at a newspaper. Every writing job I’ve gotten since college has hinged on that experience. I was assistant editor of a youth magazine for about six years – it never catches the attention the way my time at the newspaper did.
The pay wasn’t anything to write home about and the office was far from glamorous. When it rained, it leaked on the desks of the advertising reps on the other side of our big room. So they kept plastic covers over the paper calendars. At the time I started, “Lois and Clark” was on television and the utter irony of beautiful reporters in a state-of-the-art newsroom wasn’t lost on me. The Roswell/Alpharetta Neighbor newspaper headquarters was in the remains of a ghost town of a mall, a place so old I remember seeing Dudley Moore in “Arthur” with my aunt there many moons ago.
My job was to cover the sprawling city of Alpharetta, a few years before Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston moved in to liven up the joint and Andrae Risen’s house hadn’t even been burned down…yet. I covered city hall and would head up to city council meetings on Monday nights and then go to Applebee’s with a couple of ladies who enjoyed nothing better than to see the councilmen and women squirm. No legislative act would ever go unquestioned.
Although it was a friendly neighborhood paper, there were controversies. When I did a piece about a street annexation that a burgeoning local business was fighting, they were incensed and demanded we print a correction. I called the mayor to tell him about it and he was perplexed – “were they in the same meeting I was???” Another time, after doing a puff piece on a local teen beauty contest winner, the winner of the higher age group called, demanding her own story. We did it (what a tough call to make – another beauty pageant interview), but because of her tight clothes and odd poses, the photographer had a hard time finding something family-friendly to run (one of the more off-limits shots, which I never saw, was pinned up in the darkroom, I was told).
There were other human interest stories, like visiting the local firefighter hall to see how they were educating children on fire risks and to the local high school’s Students Against Drunk Driving presentation. My editor Peggy joked that I had the older women of the city eating out of my hand, offering information and help in getting access to off-limits stories. I also interviewed the mayor’s father, a World War II veteran who, along with his friend, had witnessed firsthand the raising of the flag at Iwo Jima.
I made good friends who I kept in touch with for a while. One sweet older lady, Kathleen, who worked in our advertising department, would join me for lunch at Buffalo’s Cafe. Her husband had died a few years before and she never could get up the nerve to give away his clothes. She gave them to me. My editorial cohorts, Peggy, Jenny, Don and Mike, were also great.
On Tuesdays, we’d travel down to Marietta to cut and paste the paper together with hot glue and exacto knives. This was high tech and after I’d spent the week clunking away clickety-clack at the glorified Commodore computers in the newsroom. One day, I cut too close and sliced into my finger, bleeding all over our finished product. Jenny made me a “Purple Heart” award for my bravery.
It really was the right to come along at the right time. When another offer came, I didn’t have to be begged – I was ready to go. I was ready to make better money – I considered the newspaper as type of an internship. It was invaluable.
Read a follow-up post, ‘Chasing the Stories: Part 2: When Reporters Attack!’
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