Writing Tight

Writing tight used to mean keeping a bottle of bourbon in the bottom desk drawer. Lots of the best old-time journalists did it, slugging back an ounce or two or three on deadline. As a young reporter, I once was tasked by the city editor to drive home the editorial page editor after said editor was found lying under his desk, kicking his feet in the air and muttering obscenities about the mayor. The editor’s wife blamed me for his condition and then in an ironic twist, on the way back to the office, I wrecked the company car. Nobody got in trouble. That’s just the way things were.

Now that we are all on the straight and narrow, writing tight has an entirely different meaning and it isn’t half the fun. Keep it short, sister. Attention spans aren’t what they used to be.

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An Angel

A year ago, my mother was still alive. Tonight is the last time I can write those words.

There is so much I want to say about her and about this past year. But first, there is a story that bears telling.

A year ago, I was trying to get home to my mother.  And like every other person flying through the Dallas-Fort Worth airport on Feb. 4, 2011, I was stranded.  Fog. Ice. Cancelled flights. The ticket agent was unmoved by my tears. Sorry, she said. Tomorrow, first one out. Best I can do. Next.

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Powerful Pens

A prediction. There was at least one future bestselling author in the gymnasium today at Valley View High School. I’d put money on it and so would you if you’d been there. The bleachers were filled with seventh and eighth grade writers from 13 area schools who drove to the outer beyond at the crack of dawn (cliche, -5 points) in a spitting snow (good description, +5 points) to compete in the district Power of the Pen tournament.  These kids have been training all year, writing essays, honing their wordsmithing skills and learning how to tell a story. Originality counts but so does clarity and the ability to sustain a narrative thread. It’s important to get to the meat of the story quickly (mixed metaphor, -5 points) and stick to the subject. (pithy, +3) If your topic is snow and you write about sneakers, you probably aren’t going to win. (good example,  +5 points) Continue reading

We are what we watch

Here are some numbers to think about.

Rebecca Black’s music video “Friday” had 180 million hits on YouTube in 2011.  Catchy lyrics.  ”7am waking up in the morning. gotta be fresh. gotta go downstairs. gotta have my bowl. gotta have my cereal….”

The Annoying Orange has had 97.7 million plays during its lifetime.  Retread knock knock jokes told by animated fruit.  Orange: “Hey apple, hey apple, hey apple, hey apple.” Apple: “What?” Orange: “Orange you glad I didn’t say ‘apple’?”

Other 2011 most-viewed YouTube videos include the Ultimate Dog Tease, a grainy home movie with 78 million views, the Talking Babies with 56 million and the Nyan cartoon cat (3:36 of punishing sameness) with 55 million hits.

And then there is the YouTube video of Congessman Gabrielle Giffords announcing her resignation this week: 810,724 views so far.  Eight hundred thousand hits in four days is definitely respectable, but in You Tube land that’s hardly viral.

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Change Gone Bad

 

Not all reinvention is a good thing. In fact, it can be a very bad thing.  For some years now, newspapers across the country have been tossing seasoned reporters, photographers and editors overboard like so much unwanted ballast. As a result, these same news organizations haven’t had enough people to do the actual work. Coverage has suffered. Badly. If you read a local newspaper, you have probably noticed this yourself and you don’t need me to argue the point.

Now, to improve coverage and appeal to the public, some newspapers — in fact a lot of newspapers, as well as TV and radio stations– are turning to “citizen journalists.” The quote marks are intentional because the name is essentially made up and meaningless. According to the generally accepted definition, “citizen journalists” are all people with semi-working brains and cell phones with built-in cameras. Internet connections and basic typing skills are helpful but not required. “Citizen journalists” generally work for fame and glory, though sometimes they get paid $25 for a picture. They snap pictures with their cell phones at public (or private) events and email them into the newspaper. Tweeting is encouraged.  Facts are optional. Fact-checking is not required because “citizen journalists” are only expected to tell it like they see it — whether it is a four-car pile-up on the expressway or the GOP Presidential primary (which some also might see as a four-car pile-up). We used to call these “citizen journalists” eye witnesses or even sources. But we didn’t count on them to do our jobs for us. Continue reading

Happy New Year!

Amanda is turning her hands blue with goo. Larry is unplugging the computers, as the wind is howling and we remember what happened last time the wind howled and trees came down and transformers blew. And me? I’m just happy to say adios to 2011 and hello, baby, to a new year.

May the year to come be wonderful for you all.

The Tyranny of Tipping

Recently, the local newspaper published a helpful guide to tipping. It said–and I’m summarizing here–tip everyone 20 % or look like a cheapskate. Waiter, sommelier, hairdresser, manicurist, newspaper carrier, dog walker, dog groomer, coffee barista, trash collector (except where prohibited by law), kindly neighbor who waters your plants when you’re gone. Everyone with whom you do business or with whom you might do business in the future. Ok, not the kindly neighbor. But everyone else, 20 %.  And not a fraction of a decimal point less, you tightwad, you.

During the holidays, the writer said, in addition to that 20 % standard gratuity, you should give the service person the full cost of a usual service as a “gift.”  Do the math. If you get your hair cut once a month and tip the standard 20 % each time and give the standard gift at Christmas, by the end of the year, you will had 12 haircuts and paid for 15! What a deal!

The newspaper article on tipping was undoubtedly written by a waiter or a hairdresser moonlighting as a reporter. An editor probably did not read this story for accuracy and balance. There probably wasn’t even an editor in the building. Most of the newspaper editors (and reporters) I know have been laid off, fired, downsized or sent out to cover the water and sewer board meeting.  But that is another blog for another day.

Today, we’re going to tackle the tyranny of tipping and why you should not be cowed by social convention. Continue reading

The first Christmas without her

Nothing like telling a Christmas story three days after the fact, or like watching A Christmas Story  at 10 p.m. on Dec. 27. But, better late than never, I say.

I entered the holiday season this year with more than the usual case of Bah Humbugs. We lost my mother in February. (Don’t you just love the euphemism, as though losing a parent is like losing your purse or something else that might, if you’re lucky, be found?) If not for the expectations of others — especially the littlest others — I could have skipped the whole holiday shebang entirely.

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Why 4.0?

That was Larry’s  first question when I told him what I had decided to call this blog. Larry is my husband.

Reinvention 4.0.

“Reinvention, I get,” Larry said, trailing off in a way that suggested he thought reinvention might be a tad clichéd these days.

“Are you saying this is going to be about reinventing for people over 40? You have to be careful about that. You don’t want people to think you’re over the hill. It’s the Internet.”

Oh where to start with that one?

But just so that there is no misunderstanding, 4.0 has nothing to do with 40. There’s a period between the four and the oh, silly.

4.0 stands for fourth generation or fourth iteration or fourth version. The fourth chance to start fresh.

Reinvention is, to state the obvious, a re-making of the original.

The original invention, in the case of human beings, would be the zygote. The moment Mr. Sperm meets Miss Egg, you are invented. Those nine months while all those crazy cells are turning into a baby human are the only nine months in your life when you are not being unduly influenced by someone else’s opinion. Ah the bliss of floating around in that amniotic sac. Then bam!

You, the original invention, are thrust into the harsh glare of delivery room lights and someone, generally a nurse, starts whacking an imperfect you on the bottom. Suction, swaddling,  and the re-invention has begun. Continue reading