Many hilarities and hijinx have occurred over the past year -- all of them quite fantastically good -- and for now, at least, I seem to be back in the land of narrative writing. This time, I'm focusing on science writing, which means I've got an assignment (a print precursor to a blog I'm launching, www.ordinarywondeful.com) and am both remembering how to be a journalist and teaching myself to be a semi-rigorous writer of things science at the same time. What hasn't changed after all these years is how messy the process seems to be, how time-consuming it is, and how much joy it gives me, all at the same time.
Since I'm back to writing, hopefully, I'll be back to posting here, too, detailing things like if an apparent journal article reads too much like commercial copy, chances are that's exactly what it is.
With writing science, too, I'm getting the additional benefit of reading primary research in a quest to sort it out for my readers. Sort of like being in school studying my very favorite things for free or even for pay. In short, life is pretty good in Ericaland.
Until the next time and to quote my newly acquired editor, five words and a comma,
Erica.
Showing posts with label journalism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label journalism. Show all posts
Friday, March 13, 2015
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
How much would YOU pay to read the NY Times online?
And here's my weigh-in:
Sunday, July 26, 2009
The 'What's up in writerland' official report
I'm a newspaper reporter now. I've been to the county jail and sat with murderers, to the county fair to celebrate kids and animals. To a hip-hop festival filled with musicians, children and members of Portland's gang task force.
Getting a decent reporting job was my goal when I left my friends and family in Prescott, but I took a circuitous route to get there - months as a de facto au pair (am I mixing language metaphors?), months pitching magazines and selling almost nothing. Months turned inward, learning about my mental equpment. Necessary months, in other words.
In June, three weeks before my job offer, it was totally unclear what was going to happen. I'd slacked off on looking for a reporter job because I wanted to focus on freelancing. But that was going only so-so because I needed more structure. I was at the point where I was looking forward to travelling in August as a vacation from the entirety of my flagging life. It was then I wrote the following in my journal.
So what now? Now that I'm 34, now that the negative space is revealing the form of a life, for better or worse? The most elegant choice is to continue. Failed or succeeded, it will be a life with form, a life resolute. And clearly a life fully lived.Here's what I know, I'll be at this job for as long as it takes to get my kitchen chops, the reinforcement of journalism basics. I'll keep writing a bunch of stories every week and I'll get stronger as a non-fiction writer. And, six years into a writing career, I'll respect the sculpted form my life has taken and from there, I'll pretty much continue writing till I'm worm food.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Reno does double duty as a white morass
Ok. I admit it. I'm writing this post to kill some time while I download some gypsy jazz given to me by a player in Reno. Dan left some iPod equipment behind and I told him he'd only get it back if he came armed with gypsy jazz.
Which I'm currently downloading at the Java Jungle in Reno.
The Java Jungle is a friendly damned coffee shop. It sits right in downtown Reno with mile-high casinos breathing down its neck on every side—a little refuge where I've already met a pile of nice people. I think it might even be a friendlier place than the shops in Prescott. I would have earlier claimed that's not possible, but there it is. Makes me wonder if I shouldn't be friendlier as well, and anyone who knows me knows I'm already pee-on-the-floor friendly.
In any case, Dan was saying that his friends are playing down at the Raven in April. Turned out to be the same band that my beautiful friend Candace wrote about at ReadItNews.com. And please know Dan and Candace both say you should go see 'em if you can.
Reno snowed me in and I'm still not sure I'll be seeing the other side of the Sierras anytime soon. I've sent out a dozen resumes to all corners of the country so far, but I think I'll have to belly up to a few publications to get the jobby of my dreams. Bellying up is, in fact, my dominant reason for being out here. I sort of wish I'd stayed home in Prescott for a few days to mountain bike in 70-degree weather rather than skulking in Reno coffee shops, but the fact is, only a deadline would have gotten my ass out of Prescott. And that deadline was last Saturday.
Still, I'm bummed with the stupid snow. Strong words for a devout snow lover, but there you are. And now, I'm off to buy chains and to call an award-winning editor of a Sedona pub.
Which I'm currently downloading at the Java Jungle in Reno.
The Java Jungle is a friendly damned coffee shop. It sits right in downtown Reno with mile-high casinos breathing down its neck on every side—a little refuge where I've already met a pile of nice people. I think it might even be a friendlier place than the shops in Prescott. I would have earlier claimed that's not possible, but there it is. Makes me wonder if I shouldn't be friendlier as well, and anyone who knows me knows I'm already pee-on-the-floor friendly.
In any case, Dan was saying that his friends are playing down at the Raven in April. Turned out to be the same band that my beautiful friend Candace wrote about at ReadItNews.com. And please know Dan and Candace both say you should go see 'em if you can.
Reno snowed me in and I'm still not sure I'll be seeing the other side of the Sierras anytime soon. I've sent out a dozen resumes to all corners of the country so far, but I think I'll have to belly up to a few publications to get the jobby of my dreams. Bellying up is, in fact, my dominant reason for being out here. I sort of wish I'd stayed home in Prescott for a few days to mountain bike in 70-degree weather rather than skulking in Reno coffee shops, but the fact is, only a deadline would have gotten my ass out of Prescott. And that deadline was last Saturday.
Still, I'm bummed with the stupid snow. Strong words for a devout snow lover, but there you are. And now, I'm off to buy chains and to call an award-winning editor of a Sedona pub.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Erica leaves Prescott and finds rain in Reno
“Pet friendly
Cookies
Free Internet”
- Hotel Sign in Tonapah, NV
Er sez: Cookies?”
In the last two weeks, following a not-unwelcome layoff, I packed, sold and stored my entire life.
Friday's yard sale was resplendent. I made a pile of money and the last truck pulled out at 1 pm with the last bit of my life loaded in the back. Incredible, or as my roommate Carol put it, auspicious. I'm in Reno now in a downtown cafe plotting my next move. I'll be a reporter somewhere, preferably at an award-winning publication with a strong, savvy editor.
Leaving Prescott was wrenching. I have to push through that pain to keep my eye on the future, but it's difficult. Like jumping into cold water. I had to do it and do it quick (life sorted, sold and put away within two weeks of being laid-off) and it's a deep shock to the system. Who in their right mind would leave everyone they love to seek their fortune? Me and every fairy tale hero, I suppose.
My mama always said, though, that nothing is written in stone or blood. I can always come back. That softens the pain a little, but not much.
The drive through Nevada was exotically weird. I crossed Hoover Dam away from my beloved Arizona saying the best prayer I could muster and crying my eyes out. But then I looked up and saw that Homeland Security is building a bridge up high across the gorge and well away from the dam and it was all lit up and little men (they looked little) in orange vests were crawling all over it—it being an incomplete arch suspended by wires—and I was like....whatzat? Like a little kid, I forgot to cry anymore. I'm guessing that's what this trip will be like. Struggling to let one season go, and then remembering that change is exciting, and that air that carries a new scent is always intoxicating.
When I passed through Vegas, it was Vegas, shiny and vulgar. My old schoolmate Lance lives there with his wife Natalie, and together they extolled the virtues of a place where possibility is the singular god, where anything can happen as long as it can turn a profit. A cool sentiment, but still, I gotta say Vegas is not for me. Too much hyper-stimulation for one thing.
The next day, I drove through an old mining town called Goldfield. It's in the middle of freakin' nowhere and the gas station there is also the diner. The creamer they serve is powdered. Goldfield is the kind of place that was absolutely kicking in the 1800's and the worn-out vestiges of gold rush largess remain. Goldfield is one of those worn-in spots, one of those places where the stakes are just not that high and so things are allowed to settle in. It has lots of tall, expensive brick and stone buildings and cute little cottages half-falling down – signs of life remaining just like alligator junipers whose normal growth aspect is one of healthy half-death. It's the kind of place I'd be happy to live.
I think of my last, fleeting boyfriend, the one who liked to find and sequester gold in the grand old tradition that sprouted places like Goldfield. There's nothing left from us but a polished, carved piece of jasper in my wallet and a chest full of doubt and relief, but the memories are fresh and they follow me across Nevada, a half-heeded whisper.
Forgive the digression, but it's my opinion that death is the most powerful and possibly the most positive force in our lives. We have to say no to far more than we're able to say yes to, and still everything ends. Those points of termination provide a preciousness and an urgency that will push me soon enough out of Nevada and into the Pacific Northwest. I've got my rain jacket donned, my résumés in hand and and a bellyfull of hoka hey – the sentiment that it's a good day to die.
Cookies
Free Internet”
- Hotel Sign in Tonapah, NV
Er sez: Cookies?”
In the last two weeks, following a not-unwelcome layoff, I packed, sold and stored my entire life.
Friday's yard sale was resplendent. I made a pile of money and the last truck pulled out at 1 pm with the last bit of my life loaded in the back. Incredible, or as my roommate Carol put it, auspicious. I'm in Reno now in a downtown cafe plotting my next move. I'll be a reporter somewhere, preferably at an award-winning publication with a strong, savvy editor.
Leaving Prescott was wrenching. I have to push through that pain to keep my eye on the future, but it's difficult. Like jumping into cold water. I had to do it and do it quick (life sorted, sold and put away within two weeks of being laid-off) and it's a deep shock to the system. Who in their right mind would leave everyone they love to seek their fortune? Me and every fairy tale hero, I suppose.
My mama always said, though, that nothing is written in stone or blood. I can always come back. That softens the pain a little, but not much.
The drive through Nevada was exotically weird. I crossed Hoover Dam away from my beloved Arizona saying the best prayer I could muster and crying my eyes out. But then I looked up and saw that Homeland Security is building a bridge up high across the gorge and well away from the dam and it was all lit up and little men (they looked little) in orange vests were crawling all over it—it being an incomplete arch suspended by wires—and I was like....whatzat? Like a little kid, I forgot to cry anymore. I'm guessing that's what this trip will be like. Struggling to let one season go, and then remembering that change is exciting, and that air that carries a new scent is always intoxicating.
When I passed through Vegas, it was Vegas, shiny and vulgar. My old schoolmate Lance lives there with his wife Natalie, and together they extolled the virtues of a place where possibility is the singular god, where anything can happen as long as it can turn a profit. A cool sentiment, but still, I gotta say Vegas is not for me. Too much hyper-stimulation for one thing.
The next day, I drove through an old mining town called Goldfield. It's in the middle of freakin' nowhere and the gas station there is also the diner. The creamer they serve is powdered. Goldfield is the kind of place that was absolutely kicking in the 1800's and the worn-out vestiges of gold rush largess remain. Goldfield is one of those worn-in spots, one of those places where the stakes are just not that high and so things are allowed to settle in. It has lots of tall, expensive brick and stone buildings and cute little cottages half-falling down – signs of life remaining just like alligator junipers whose normal growth aspect is one of healthy half-death. It's the kind of place I'd be happy to live.
I think of my last, fleeting boyfriend, the one who liked to find and sequester gold in the grand old tradition that sprouted places like Goldfield. There's nothing left from us but a polished, carved piece of jasper in my wallet and a chest full of doubt and relief, but the memories are fresh and they follow me across Nevada, a half-heeded whisper.
Forgive the digression, but it's my opinion that death is the most powerful and possibly the most positive force in our lives. We have to say no to far more than we're able to say yes to, and still everything ends. Those points of termination provide a preciousness and an urgency that will push me soon enough out of Nevada and into the Pacific Northwest. I've got my rain jacket donned, my résumés in hand and and a bellyfull of hoka hey – the sentiment that it's a good day to die.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Mountain passes and the blackened nose
“I crossed so many rivers in search of crystal fountains,
I found the truest paths always lead through mountains.” - Kate Wolf
“Choose the best pain.”
“Be bold and feel the wind on your skin.”
Been struggling with the blog lately. You can tell from the fact that 2009 has seen no posts. Had one rolling around in my head like a rock, but it came out flat. Something about how problems and challenges can elicit a 'Why me?' sentiment or, perhaps better, more of a 'I'm climbing a great big mountain and it's cold up here and my nose is half-off from frostbite and that's why it hurts so bad' sentiment.
So yeah. It's cold up here. But maybe not as steep and weird as it has been. I say that despite the fact that I'm caught up in the trappings of that latest economic craze, the Great American Layoff. In three days, I'm taking off up north to seek my fortunes as a writer. Figure it's time to finally get into a newsroom and cement some honest-to-god feature writing chops. Got the wind at my back, too, what with how thrivy the newspaper business has been lately. The powers that be are doubting the mighty Murdoch for his love of print. But whatever. The long and the short of it is that a clear cut adventure beats the hell out of a flagging job any day.
So I'm off. More posts forthcoming, no doubt.
I found the truest paths always lead through mountains.” - Kate Wolf
“Choose the best pain.”
“Be bold and feel the wind on your skin.”
Been struggling with the blog lately. You can tell from the fact that 2009 has seen no posts. Had one rolling around in my head like a rock, but it came out flat. Something about how problems and challenges can elicit a 'Why me?' sentiment or, perhaps better, more of a 'I'm climbing a great big mountain and it's cold up here and my nose is half-off from frostbite and that's why it hurts so bad' sentiment.
So yeah. It's cold up here. But maybe not as steep and weird as it has been. I say that despite the fact that I'm caught up in the trappings of that latest economic craze, the Great American Layoff. In three days, I'm taking off up north to seek my fortunes as a writer. Figure it's time to finally get into a newsroom and cement some honest-to-god feature writing chops. Got the wind at my back, too, what with how thrivy the newspaper business has been lately. The powers that be are doubting the mighty Murdoch for his love of print. But whatever. The long and the short of it is that a clear cut adventure beats the hell out of a flagging job any day.
So I'm off. More posts forthcoming, no doubt.
Friday, August 1, 2008
WTF is the problem?
I wrote a query back in June and just sent it today. It was a good query - simple, direct, to-the-point. And I'd already completed it. For some reason that I can't begin to explain (other than bone-jarring terror at putting myself out there), I had kept it back until just today.
So please...please leave a comment if you have any ideas about why I'm so frickin' silly.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
My biggest birthday wish
Last night, I was schlepping around on the couch, watching this HBO show called Generation Kill with a character who was an embedded Rolling Stone reporter in Iraq. I want to go to crazy places as a reporter when I grow up!
Oh damn. I already grew up.
The thing is, I wish I could think bigger and be bolder. So that's my 34th birthday wish this year, to begin to ask unreasonable things of people who have the power to make them happen.
Maybe this year I'll go to the Middle East to find out what sorts of party businesses the 30-something burqa'd matrons are into. That could be cool. Or why American teenage girls are joining the Israeli army. There's definitely a story there. I'll keep you posted.
Friday, July 11, 2008
I keep hitting this same wall, over and over...
Ok. Confession time. Sometimes it feels like I just ain't gettin' nowhere in this journalism business, and it isn't only because sometimes I lapse into a double negative vernacular.
No, indeed.
It's that Woody Allen's admonishment, "Ninety percent of success in life is just showing up," often fails to take purchase in this battered little soul of mine. When I get to sitting down to write queries, conceive of stories and tell editors about them, it feels a lot like I'm wading through molasses.
The year-old Oprah magazine that's been sitting in the guest bathroom opines that when I'm not sure what to do, I should "just do something, anything!." So I signed up for a wu-wu class in energy healing. Figured maybe I could use it on myself to heal what ails me.
In the meantime, I've got a couple of bicycle-based queries I'm gonna write and shoot off.
And any advice you, my gentle reader (and I do assume you might be singular, so don't hang back) can offer could mean the difference between molasses and greased lightnin'.
No, indeed.
It's that Woody Allen's admonishment, "Ninety percent of success in life is just showing up," often fails to take purchase in this battered little soul of mine. When I get to sitting down to write queries, conceive of stories and tell editors about them, it feels a lot like I'm wading through molasses.
The year-old Oprah magazine that's been sitting in the guest bathroom opines that when I'm not sure what to do, I should "just do something, anything!." So I signed up for a wu-wu class in energy healing. Figured maybe I could use it on myself to heal what ails me.
In the meantime, I've got a couple of bicycle-based queries I'm gonna write and shoot off.
And any advice you, my gentle reader (and I do assume you might be singular, so don't hang back) can offer could mean the difference between molasses and greased lightnin'.
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