I think that's just the name of the game, though.
One of my professors said he became a journalist because it was the last adventure job. It could send you anywhere with anyone. This was one of the things I struggled with. I'm a planner, and I hate uncertainty. If you've ever sat helplessly at your desk with one eye one your telephone and the other on the clock eating away at your deadline, you get it.
I was always a reserved kid. The thoughts and crazy ideas I brewed in my head usually ended up on paper or whispered in my sister's ear. Last year, getting up the courage to approach a source at a game or call for an interview took way more internal pep-talking than normal. I'm not a people person, but they fascinate me. I've always been a wide-eyed observer, content to watch interactions and file them away in my puzzle-piece worldview.
I came to journalism wanting to write, and wanting to find replacements for the holes I had in my portrait of the world. No blemishes of deadlines and pyramid structure appeared in my vision of seeking out social and political justice with few strokes of a pen.
Today the adventure of journalism took me on a tree-lined hike through Ithaca for a piece I'm doing for a class on the state of bed and breakfasts in the economic decline. It felt almost like a reparation for its betrayal of my idealistic expectations, its repeated failures as an art and as a science.
After my hour-long walk down I sat in an 200 year old inn, surrounded by smells of baking and old books, chatting with the owner of the William Henry Miller Inn. She was entertaining, helpful, cheerful and warm. The glass china cabinets, paisley rugs, and creaky stairs reminded me of home. Beyond all the bed and breakfast-y charm, however, was a great interview. I'd gone in expecting a tale of a struggling business. Instead, I found an inn that used its kindness to reach success. Needless to say, it was cool.
I hiked back up the hill to campus, wondering why exactly I thought it would be a good idea to walk back up to campus. Right on the edge of campus, I stopped and looked around to see if anyone could see me. Then, I walked over to a tree surrounded by bright red leaves and walked around happily in my boots.
Because, you know, the best way to congratulate yourself on a job well done is stomping on crunchy leaves.
I got back to my room with flushed cheeks and chapped hands. I switched on the television to watch New Orleans finish off the Giants. Collapsing on my bed, I realized journalism had given me a pretty good Sunday.
Break rocks.
