It was about a year ago. I started working with a newspaper. At the news desk. At that time, I didn’t even know what the news desk really meant. But I was thrilled. My motivation matched my curiosity to learn.
I wanted to know everything there was to know about editing stories, designing pages, making layouts, filling empty spaces, cutting things to size, bringing out an edition on time. The adrenaline from the daily deadline was what I awoke for every morning. I looked forward to the midnight chaos when the only thing that mattered in the whole world was to get that headline right. To wonder on my way back home if I missed the ‘l’ in ‘public interest’. Or if I gave the right person the byline. Or if I had indeed replaced the dummy text before sending the final page. If someone, oh someone had read my page at least once. To wait until the wee hours to see for myself if I’d remembered to change the date on the masthead.
I breathed to get all of this right. The black and white of newsprint gave colour to my existence. The repetitive stories of theft, murder, robbery, rape gave meaning to life. The realisation that it could happen to anyone and that it happens to everyone sunk in. That a damaged pipeline and a broken tree can alter lives changed my worldview.
But no longer. No longer will I run for that print. No longer will I fix that caption. No more fights with the reporter. No more sleepless nights. No more midnight rush. The pumpkin’s burst. Cinderella must find another ball.
\\'The black and white of newsprint gave colour to my existence'
ReplyDeleteIt also gave colour to your post. Passion is always a good thing, isnt it?