Of headlines and deadlines.
I am a section editor and reporter for The Viper Vibe, Felix Varela High School's student newspaper. I hope, with everything in me, to be Editor-in-Chief next year. Were it not biologically impossible and financially crippling, I would surely bleed ink.
This is not a journalism blog. It is a blog about journalism. It is a compilation of my journalistic experiences. There will be opinions, there will be biases, there will be rants and raves.
Mostly, there will be anecdotes of my adventures in journalism and the misadventures that come with being part of a school newspaper.
"I became a journalist to come as close as possible to the heart of the world." -- Henry R. Luce .
And it’s almost funny, because it worked for a second. People told me I was capital-w Wrong for putting so much into a publication I’d be leaving in a year.
I never agreed, but it worked. I never stopped caring, but it worked its way under my skin until parts of me felt downright foolish. I marched on, AP Stylebook in hand and three different idea/inspiration notebooks in the bag over my shoulder, but I felt like I deserved the ridicule.
Like most things, though, the fleeting belief passed and I sit here with the patented one-finger salute.
I’ve procrastinated on writing this post because I’ve procrastinated on acknowledging that FSPA 2012 (which is the actual name of the contypething, Marygrace) is actually over. There was so much anticipation and then so much intensity and good that I really, really don’t want to come back down to what’s supposed to be reality.
Because that’s the thing— nothing feels quite as real as FSPA did.
It was everything I remembered it being and everything I hoped it would be, and it was so, so much more. It was a staff bonding experience and a farewell to my seniors. It was a weekend of making new friends and being surrounded by people who speak journalism. It was everything.
Maybe my words should reflect the impact those three days had on me, but I don’t think they ever can. Certainly not yet. The best I can do right now is list it as a series of memories.
And I guess this is it.
My bags are all packed up, my flash drive is loaded with Disney movies for the drive up, my Harry Potter blanket is folded neatly on top of my ridiculously small suitcase. I’ve double-checked for chargers, reporter pads, and pens that won’t die on me. There’s even a copy of my Leonard Pitts Jr. anthology in my bag for when my editorial contest nerves tage over.
All I have to do is go to sleep, wake up, get ready, and board that bus. It’s three days of indescribable bliss from there.
I think my body has, as a defense mechanism, gone into shock or something like it. It doesn’t feel like it’s tomorrow. It feels like it’s still another year away. Maybe it’ll sink in tomorrow morning and maybe it’ll sink in when I’m in the middle of that kickass opening ceremony, but it’s going to sink in. And I cannot wait until it does.
So here’s to competitions and conventions, journalists and journalism families. Here’s to meeting the people I don’t yet know but have been missing all along and to, if only for the smallest fraction of this year, being surrounded by thousands of people who get it.
Here’s to tomorrow.
FSPA 2012 is one week away. Seven days from this moment, I will be darting around a hotel, running into fellow scholastic journalists and trying to make my numbered days of immeasurable happiness feel like forever.
I’ll be reeling from the opening ceremonies. I’ll be crossing my fingers, toes, and writing tools for my staffers, who will be in the final minutes of their on-the-spot writing competitions. I’ll be jittery about my own competition the next morning and trying not to think about carry-ins too much.
When I see other people talking about upcoming conventions that I can’t make it to, they always refer to it as “reuniting with the journalism family.” This is what it feels like. It might only be my second year going to the convention and I can’t say I made many connections last year or that I know more than a handful of people who’ll be attending, but it feels like going home.
Because you can walk down the halls and meet other students’ eyes and just smile, flash them a quick thumbs-up, show sings of knowing what they love and what they go through. You’re in this place where everybody gets it. Everybody in attendance speaks “I can’t, I have newspaper” and you never have to explain what a cutline is.
There’s also the fact that people have started recognizing me for my interest in journalism. I’ve gotten follows, friendship requests, and conversations that I never imagined I’d have— people who I admire and respect knowing my name, my aspirations, my quirks. People who I’ll finally meet seven days from this moment.
Seven days from this moment, all that will matter is what I love most.
This has become my countdown-to-being-Editor-in-Chief song.
A few of my staffers have taken to calling me Simba.
I am okay with this.
My staff and I at a Tropical Smoothie Cafe fundraiser for our Communications Academy. I love these people.
Once FSPA is over, the focus will shift towards preparing for next year.
That means I’ll be
- redesigning the newspaper
- adjusting to our upcoming change to tabloid
- revamping editor expectations and policy
- planning new organizational tactics for the staff
- burning every word of the AP Stylebook into my mind
- forming a huge businesses-to-contact-for-ads directory
- making lots of powerpoints with which to teach newbies next year
- reading too many journalism/design books for my own good
It’s daunting. Of course it is. But I cannot wait.
And if I thought I could not possibly be any more excited, motivated, and thoroughly scared for states, today proved me wrong.
Everything is wonderful and everything is going to be amazing.
That’s what those three certificates say: All Florida. Claudia Morales. And there are three more: Honorable Mention. Claudia Morales.
There is this unfathomable enormity to our state, to FSPA, to the idea that I could somehow win something. It’s the stuff of my deepest hopes and dreams, the stuff of endless determination, but never the stuff of reality. I’ve never allowed myself to consider it a possibility.
I sent those articles in for the sake of sending them in. I hoped to glean some criticism that I could use to improve. I did not get any other hopes up; I could not.
And then there we were, a small part of a newspaper staff finally walking out of a school with a paper that had just gone to press and a state competition looming over us. There was the routine check of the mailbox, or rather us following the adviser who drives us home every day as she checked her mailbox. There was the yellow envelope with FSPA on the front.
And then there were awards. So many awards. Seventeen of the nineteen entries we submitted.
And then there was my name, time and time again, and those words I could never imagine would appear alongside it.
Journalism is my everything, but I’ve convinced myself that I am nothing.
Today, I feel like something.
Ladies and gentlemen, I have officially gone insane.
State competition is approaching. We’re past deadline. Next year— my year— is officially looming over everything, shadow and all. And I love it. And I revel in it. And I am terrified by it.
I’m going to make this paper amazing next year; I am. But, damn it, it’s going to be difficult, and I’m realizing that more than ever as I scramble to foster some sense of unwavering dedication in the people who will produce this publication next year. I can’t even propose prioritizing without starting an enormous debate and I can’t stand by my opinion without feeling massively guilty about it all.
Publication first, though. Editor positions are privileges. The paper deserves more.
As much as I believe that, it’s difficult just to argue it.
And it’s difficult not to think of my myriad shortcomings every second of every minute, not to think of how I need to be more dedicated still and more talented and more intelligent. I need to be more everything.
My death certificate is going to say “Death by Newspaper,” I promise you.
