Newsrooms Old And New

I was an ink-stained wretch for almost 25 years until more people began dropping their morning newspaper in favor of reading news online.

I loved it, and yet, I left to pursue business interests combined with journalism.

Many writing and editing roles are now remote, yet no home office or coffee shop can match the old-school newsrooms I’ve experienced for sheer drama, angst, and excitement.

It’s that process—passionate, dedicated people throw together, who disagree, compulsively brainstorm, and pick apart the smallest details—that produced special reports on government waste, daily stories on the whys of tax increases, pressed for more open records, and told the stories of locals who did right—and wrong.

Journalism is not dead, but the rich and varied environments of these places are fewer, and the news people that read today is affected by the size and composition of the staffs working for news organizations.

I was lucky enough to work in five newsrooms, in Pittsburgh, near Chicago, and near Erie, as a writer and then editor.

In “news-of-record” media outlets, most newsrooms have editors’ meetings daily to talk through stories of the day, what to slot as most important, what to develop, and what to brief.  Sometimes one key question could make a story front page or kill it. This was not easy. Assigning editors are expected to know not just the facts of what their writers had gathered, but how they were backing up those facts.

Each day we were challenged. We did not walk out of news meetings with a bowl of compliments. Instead, we had to make it better. Make it rise. 

Failure is not an option.

If everyone agrees with each other—or they are afraid to say what they think—it doesn’t work. The stories you get will not be as well-developed. Nor is this process as strong if the newsroom lacks diversity in experience, perspective, and background. 

We are, in essence, a test audience for what you will read. And we are rarely happy with anything we read or what we see.

Imagine people thrown together, drawn by instinct, desperation, and pure belief there’s redemption in a story well-told. People who carry the weight of responsibility for telling a story, they know otherwise, might not be told. Imagine people who HAVE to do this thing, as if it were another human need, such as eating. Some are bone tired because they seemingly never stop working. 

They will work day into night, sometimes at the expense of family and friends. They will knock on the doors of strangers, cold call, approach you on the street, and if you ignore them, perhaps find you at Sunday mass. They will dig through numbers, file Open Records requests, and curse when the agency denies them. That’s a journalist.

Some of these people are disasters outside the newsroom. They might have troubled marriages. Substance abuse problems. (“He’s a great reporter—when he’s sober.”) Others may be workaholics, leaving the office at 6—only to say—“I’ll be back later, I’m just getting something to eat,” as if it’s perfectly normal. Others didn’t like to talk to people at all. Still, others might have a hair-trigger temper that could flare unpredictably.

Others could have quirks, unique to them.

One editor, seeking privacy to take personal calls, used to crawl under his desk and curl up into a ball. On more than one occasion I walked by, looking for him, and a hand, would jut out from under the desk, a long, thin finger pointed out as if to say, “I’ll be right with you!” Soon this was so widely accepted people knew where to look if they didn’t see him. Yet he was good: He’d pop out and come up with the catchiest headlines, and produce a tightly-edited story.

But we all shared this: A deep and abiding need to tell the story.

There’s a magic in the collaboration that happens when there are so many different types of people in the room—compulsively outspoken, angsty, passionate people. It makes for sometimes arguments and hurt feelings, but this process also tends to produce some of the best stories. We ask questions readers might ask. What one person doesn’t think to ask, another might.

Which goes to the value of intelligent discussion. Stories live or die based on whether the premise can hold up to questions.

Can you back up what you are saying?

Does the premise make sense? What the f&^% does that mean? Who gives a f*^& about that? 

Readers should expect no less of the news they read each day. 

Some of the best stories happen when someone is curious, asks questions, gathers facts, and presents it the toughest readers: a roomful of editors and fellow writers who are compulsively nitpicky, some, and who cannot help but see flaws in most things. It’s at this point in the process that the stereotype of editor-as-curmudgeon is in full bloom. What about this? What about that?

Where’s the nut graph?

What’s your point?

“It’s not ready.”

And a journalist’s commitment to his or her work is perhaps best illustrated this way. Here’s a picture for you: A copy editor one day hung up the phone, and, without taking his eyes off the computer screen, said:  “Awww, I want to kill myself.”

Two other copy editors jumped up.

“What’s wrong?” one said.

“My house is on fire,” he said, still looking at the screen.

“What???! What???!

“Why don’t you leave?”

“Everybody’s out. It’s out. I can’t do anything. I have pages to do.

“We’re on deadline.”

Fellow staffers took up a collection in an old coffee cup to help him recover.

Instead of taking the next day off, he showed up in wrinkled pants.

“It’s OK, all my clothes are fine.

“They were in the dryer.”