When I grow up

In third grade, I wanted to be a lawyer. I liked LA Law. That was the extent of my reasoning.

In eighth grade, the small local paper decided to add an insert from each of the local grade schools. I sat in the English room with 8 of my classmates as we looked at the editor of the paper.

He asked who wanted to be in charge – read over what other people had written, make sure the articles were typed in properly, correct grammar and spelling as needed.

I always want to be in charge, and was even more eager for credit and approval in my early teens. But I didn’t want to appear too nerdy, so I stayed silent with the rest of the students.

I wiggled happily in my seat when I was singled out by the English teacher and got to edit our small section. It appeared three times. I was excessively proud.

I wrote editorials, talked about issues that were important to junior high students, but tried mightily to be mature and thoughtful in my discussion. Apparently it had some impact, and I was asked to continue my column on a bi-monthly basis throughout the summer then into high school.

I’ll be a journalist! I decided quickly. I loved having a response to the future plans questions. So I wrote for the school paper, making my way up to editor-in-chief my senior year. I talked to sexy baseball boys my freshman year, interviewed a teacher who was later fired for divulging standardized test essay questions prior to the exam sometime in my sophomore year, talked to the Dean about drug prevention, and finally got to run the paper.

I spent significant time in that local paper office, working 20 hours/week one summer to gain some experience. I’d walk in the small storefront just off the charming town square. I’d greet Betsy, the receptionist, and wander past the chest-high white counter with baskets perched atop. One was for birth, death and wedding announcements, the other for new subscriptions.

It always smelled like crayons to me and I’d pass the pots of melted wax that were used to paste the printed copy to the full-size mock-ups. Even after they obtained software to perform the necessary cuts and pastes, the waxy scent lingered. There were notes tacked to walls covered with paneling – reminders scrawled on scratch paper, corrections sent in from readers, advertising requests.

I would open mail, occasionally go on interviews, terrified that I wouldn’t properly use the camera to capture the picture of Miss State talking to the grade school class about scholarship and service. I was coddled, gently encouraged and carefully taught, part of a staff of 3 – the receptionist, the owner and the editor, who would create an 8 page paper each week. There were two of us who would come in part-time – the typist, an older lady whose name I never learned since arriving before 8AM was never my habit, and me, reserved, polite, but reasonably confident in my talent.

Thanks to my editor’s connections, I was able to spend a day with writers at the daily paper in the city. Grandpa had worked there – he was a pressman, and I can remember holding his hand and smiling at his friends, always distracted by the loud machines that would whisk the papers away, depositing ink to form text and pictures. He was so proud – of his family and his work. I love him, and miss him, ever so much.

So I felt a little like I was coming home upon entering the large building, fondly remembering toddling through on my childhood visit. It even overlooked the cemetery, and I was convinced that if I could find the right window, I would see the flowers at his headstone.

I talked to people all day. That morning, there was a photographer in a dim room, hunched over a computer screen, adjusting levels and contrast. He mumbled to himself, asking me twice how much more time I was supposed to spend with him, and finally turning the most intense green eyes I’ve ever seen on me.

“Does it look better to you?” He asked, disrupting my vague fantasies inspired by breathing him in. He smelled delicious. I could have sat there all day.

“Oh. I ... I don’t really know.”

A smile squinted his eyes, and I was suddenly even more nervous. He was breathtakingly sexy, and my meager experience didn’t enable me to respond in any way apart from blushing.

“I showed you the picture when you came in…” and he had – it was of these pretty blue vases on the mantle of a stone fireplace. He was considering it for the cover of the Saturday Home section. “and I’m showing it to you now, after I’ve worked for how long?”

“Ten minutes.” I murmured, with a glance at the bulky gold watch Grandma gave me for 8th grade graduation. “And I honestly don’t see any difference.”

He laughed at me, tugged a brown curl that had fallen around my face when I ducked my head bashfully, and stood.

“Well then, let’s get you out of here. You don’t need to watch me waste more time.”

The other moment I recall was much less sexually charged. I was speaking to a political writer, an older man, at his desk piled high with slender notebooks scrawled with notes, a stack of phone messages, and countless icky Styrofoam cups once filled with coffee. They were now filled with stains or sludgy goo. The reporter was finishing a phone call when I arrived, waved me into a seat, and continued to talk as I wrinkled my nose at his work space.

“So!” He said, turning his attention to me. “You want to be a reporter?”

“I think so. I’m still trying to figure out what I want.” I replied, exhausted after a day of talking with people, trying to be impressive, and becoming increasingly unsure of what I actually wanted for my future.

“That’s good. It’s never wise to decide your fate too soon.” Then he stared at me. I wasn’t sure what he was looking for, and if he wanted to gaze into someone’s eyes, I’d highly recommend that photographer. His vivid green trumped my deep brown any day. Uncomfortable with his scrutiny, I started to talk.

“I like the idea of it – talking to people, understanding something, then telling the public about it. And the people here are great – they seem smart and dedicated and talented. But how do I know what I want? How did you know this was the right place for you?”

His heavy shoulder raised in a shrug. “I just found my way to this. It’s a long, boring story, but this is what I do now.”

“Did you study journalism?”

He laughed at this, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, you don’t learn this in a classroom. You can write or you can’t. If you can, we’ll make you better. But you get there by working – talking to people and seeing what you should have asked, writing something and hearing what people hated. You learn as you go, and if you really want this, you’d be better off to start working right now.”

I must have looked alarmed, because he gentled his tone and continued.

“Want my advice?” He waited for me to nod, then sighed. “You want to go to college?”

I nodded, still frowning with great concern. He was stealing my “what I want to be when I grow up” answer!

“Don’t study journalism. Learn something else – science, technology, history, political science, religion. Then you can write about it. But if you’re going to school, learn something good. That’s how you get the good jobs.” With that, he tapped the stack of stories from the AP. He shook my hand, accepted my thanks for his time, and sent me on my way.

He, with his stacks of nasty coffee cups, changed the course of my future. I quickly altered my college application to reflect a nonexistent interest in electrical engineering. I entered a world of calculus, physics, binary theory, and circuit design – one where men dominated the classes and I struggled to understand some of the concepts.

I went to a college newspaper meeting, dragging a friend with me. But the staff was late, and 4 incoming freshmen waited in a stiflingly hot 2nd floor hallway. Nobody talked to me, though they each seemed to know each other. Intimidated, I never returned, giving up my writing interest to focus on more reasonable goals.

Then I started this blog. Found writers I love, then realized one of my new favorites – a real live writer with impeccable talent – actually reads some of this. I feel a little twinge, wondering if I suppressed my dreams for too long. I’m not like them, though I try to mimic their styles at times. I find myself trying to identify what I love, writing tricks that engage and improve flow, that elicit emotion and bring my own experiences to mind while engrossed in their words.

There are two times when it's great for me to check bloglines. When I first wake up, then again when I return from work in the evening. I search for particular people before making my way through the whole list. I look forward to all of the new material, but some people are particularly compelling.

I find myself reading as fast as I can to get the idea of their posts, then returning to the beginning to savor the phrases, the words I wouldn’t have thought to use, the flow that pulls me in then holds me past the end of the work – wanting to know more, feel more, spend a little extra time within these thoughts so beautifully presented.

In those moments, and when I continue to type out my own thoughts, wondering if anything is coming across on screen the way it plays in my mind, I momentarily wish I was a writer. I like what I do – think I made a series of choices for some reason – but I’m profoundly grateful that I have this. It’s a source of comfort that I can come back and read my words and hope I’m a little like those writers who are trying to understand life then attempting to tell other people what they might have figure out.