My grandma and I were on a mission this afternoon to find the nearest library. Not knowing where we were going, we started to drive toward the gulf when we should have been heading toward the bay. We turned around and around. My car was starting to make funny noises, probably from dizziness.

“Is that it over there?” my grandma asked.

“No, gramz, that’s a church. Can’t you see the big cross and steeple?”

“Ohh Mallary, c’mon. You know I can’t see it that well!”

We eventually had to stop at a local Hess station to ask for directions.

“It’s right down the road on the right,” the cashier told us. “You can’t  miss it.”

She was right. Straight out of the 1960s, the flashy looking library stands on the edge of Drew Street, a bright blue sea amidst a field of green, a perfect home for a Smerf. I wish I had brought my camera with me to take some photos.

When I pulled into the parking lot I noticed that it was almost full. People of all ages were walking in and out of the library, a surprising change from the senior center of a library that I’m used to back home.

The library seems old-fashioned, but the people inside keep it young. Today, children read on their bellies, swinging their legs in the air as they entered into the world of Arthur the aardvark and Clifford the big red dog. Old people sat on chairs reading books while younger people about my age hovered around computer screens. I wondered how many of these people go to the library because they don’t own their own computers …

As I walked beside rows of books, I came across the Spanish language section of the library. A book about Shakira drew my attention, so I picked it up and started reading, hoping maybe I could figure out why “hips don’t lie.” Then I spotted Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s “100 Years of Solitude.” Jackpot. I’ve been wanting to read this book for a while, so when I found a copy in Spanish, I had to check it out.

There’s something about Spanish literature that I love, maybe the challenge of interpreting both the symbolism in the book and the language itself. Marquez, Lorca, Ibanez and Machado are among my favorite Spanish authors.

When I saw their names lining the shelves of the library, I couldn’t help but eye the covers of their books, feel their pages brush past my fingers, and smell their age. The whole library smelled like a worn book — slightly musty, but familiar. People peered at me through the bookshelves, probably wondering why I had my nose (literally) inside a book. I didn’t mind, though. I was just happy to see so many people there.

So often, I hear people talk about newspapers becoming obselete and about there being more and more illiterate children, but today’s trip to the library refuted these claims, if only for an hour in time. Even with all the reading material available on the Internet, I thought, people still appreciate books. There’s something special about holding a tangible piece of literature, something with a little smell and character to it, that a computer screen can hardly provide.

I felt this way whenever I went into the library at my alma mater, Providence College, where students would pore over dusty books in a scramble to write research papers. Phillips Memorial Library, which my friends and I called “Club Phill’s,” was the one of the ugliest building on campus, but it was one of the best places to catch up with friends and pretend to study.

It’s the place where I stayed up until 2 a.m. making copies for my term paper on the Knight’s Tale in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales sophomore year. It’s the place where I fumbled through my purse many a nights looking for change to make copies of old journals that were forbidden to leave the library. And it’s the place where my friend and I vowed to camp out overnight before graduating. We had a master plan of how we would elude security but alas, fear got the best of us. Too bad, because it would have been a great story to share …

There are plenty of stories floating around the little blue library, I’m sure. I don’t doubt I’ll return there again with my grandma before she goes home. When I do, I’ll fill you in on some of the characters I meet.

What are some of your interesting/fun/nerdy library stories?

During my half-hour commute to work, I hear a lot of songs. My 14-year-old, Bimmeny Blue Tempo is too archaic to have a CD player, so I listen to the radio, switching back and forth from station to station, hoping I don’t miss a song I like. If I hear a song multiple times in a row — one that isn’t Rhianna’s “Umbrella” or some other rap song that is good but far too overplayed — I start paying careful attention to the lyrics. It must be a sign, I think. Maybe the song is trying to tell me something about my life, about relationships, about something I don’t have the guts to speak but can sing.The two songs that I keep hearing on my travels to and from work are:

–“Love is a Battlefield” by Pat Benetar

Selected lyrics: “We are young, heartache to heartache we stand/ No promises, no demands/ Love is a battlefield/ We are strong, no one can tell us we’re wrong/ Searching our hearts for so long, both of us knowing love is a battlefield.”

–“Talking in Your Sleep” by the Romantics (Please, if you don’t do anything else, check out the hair on the guys in this video.)

Selected lyrics: “When you close your eyes and go to sleep/ And it’s down to the sound of a heartbeat,/ I can hear the things that  you’re dreaming about/ When you open up your heart and the truth comes out/ I hear the secrets that you keep when you’re talking in your sleep.”

I have to laugh because really, how much more random could it get? But then I think, maybe the songs aren’t so random, maybe there’s some meaning to them. Songs, for me, help me remember my own story. When I listen to Sarah McLachlan’s “I Will Remember You,” I’m reminded of my mom, who dedicated the song to me before she passed away 11 years ago. The song comes on the radio at the most interesting times — generally when I’m searching for guidance or advice.

When I hear “Lean on Me,” I’m reminded of stories of friendship. My best friend from home, Linsey, and I sang this song during a talent show senior year. We were the closing act, and we were so proud to be up there on stage together, belting it out in front of the senior class. Whenever I hear it on the radio, I can’t help but think of Linsey and my other friends, without whom my story would suffer.

When “Don’t Stop Believing” comes on the radio, I’m reminded of my own journey through life and that of all the others who share my love for this song …

Lately, I’ve been listening a lot to KT Tunstall’s “Heal Over.” It reminds me of recuperating from life’s rough patches, and finding the strength to move on.

As for “Love is a Battlefield?” Well, the statement is definitely true. As for whether this song is a “sign” of some sort, I’m not sure. And what about “Talking in Your Sleep?” I’ve been told I chitchat incessently while sleeping, and I’ve even woken myself up sometimes from soliloquizing too loudly. Maybe it’s a sign I better keep to my six-inch voice so my neighbors don’t come knocking on the door in the middle of the night. I forget how thin these apartment walls are sometimes …

I’m curious to hear about songs that you think tell good stories. What songs make you think of the story you want to tell?

OK, I’ll admit it. I’m a people watcher. I find people — their mannerisms, their facial expressions, their voices — fascinating. I went to the pool today with the intention of swimming, reading my book and minding my own business. But then a woman, who I’ll call Martha, arrived. I heard her from the street as she walked toward the gate surrounding the pool. The journalist in me couldn’t help but write about her. So I did. Here’s Martha’s story:

Martha waves her hands back and forth when she talks, her flourescent pink nail polish painting the air around her. She seems fearless, walking around the pool grounds, cackling and talking loudly for the whole pool to hear.

“You’re nuts, you’re carrrazzy,” she tells her friend Anastasia in a thick Brooklyn accent. “Woahhh mamma mia. … badda bing, badda bing!” Her eyes are invisible behind the blue-green lenses of her sunglasses, but her voice reveals her soul. Sounding like Mrs. Costanza from “Seinfeld,” she talks to her friends as if an actress in a play. The pool is her stage.

She goes to the pool a few times a week, partly for pleasure, partly to combat one of her greatest fears: swimming.

At age 10, while at a theme park in New York, Martha wanted desperately to jump into the park’s 24-foot deep diving pool. Her dad advised her not to go into the water, but after he walked away and headed toward the bathroom, little independant Martha plopped into the pool.

Fear surfaced, Martha said, as she sunk deeper and deeper, unable to stay afloat. She said she remembers flailing her arms, but that fatigue soon dragged her down. The lifeguard on duty was flirting with his girlfriend and failed to see Martha. She said he was later fired for neglecting to help her.

The day that Martha almost drowned is the day that forced Martha to make a decision: Either stay out of the water or learn to step in, one foot at a time. Now, though she can’t swim, she still goes into the pool and stays afloat on a noodle. While in the pool today, she rarely ventured from the water’s edge. Maybe someday, she said, she’ll learn to swim.

Just after arriving at the pool around 4 p.m., Martha called her friend Vivian and asked her to join her and her friends. “Come on over, Vivian!” she said, her energy bubbling.

When she isn’t talking, Martha laughs. She flirted with the men around her today as she floated on her green noodle. She said her husband, whom she affectionately calls “Cookie,” doesn’t mind her flirtacious nature.

“I’m all talk and no action,” she said to her friend Juarez, who talks in broken English. “I can look at you as long as I don’t touch.”

Soon after, Vivian arrived, whizzing around the poolside on a motorized scooter. An older woman who wears lines of age on her face, Vivian looked and acted as though she could be Martha’s mother.

“Ooo, that bathing suit looks good on you, girl,” she said to a woman lying on a lounge chair. She scooted toward Martha, wanting to make sure she had found a pool noodle. There used to be six of them in the nearby shed. Now, there are only two left, Vivian said.

Martha and Vivian talked for a couple minutes, then Vivian rode away, cackling and tossing her head up high as she rolled down the walkway back toward her apartment. But just as she was out sight she came back, saying she was bored and wanted another minute of company.  Martha encouraged her to come into the pool, then told her the story of the time she almost drowned. The story didn’t seem to amuse Vivian, maybe because she had heard it a few too many times. She left soon after, disappearing down the walkway.

I stayed at the poolside for a little while longer, hoping I could wait to see Martha’s husband arrive, but a team of red fire ants invaded my beach bag, so my bug phobia and I left.

Having learned so much about Martha in a half-hour’s time, I wanted to stay and find out more. Hearing Martha talk to her friends made me realize just how important listening can be. I used to hate silence, especially during interviews. It was better to fill the silence with my own words, I used to tell myself, than to awkwardly wait for the other person to respond. But I’m learning that silence really does speak.

By listening to Martha talk and by observing her in her natural element, I learned so much about her. Part of the storytelling process is the interview — recording basic background information and getting the person you’re interviewing to feel comfortable with you. But so much of storytelling is about listening.

So, maybe a better phrase for people watching would be “people listening,” if that makes sense.

The mall is a great place to people watch/listen, as is the pool, apparently. One of my old writing coaches, Mrs. T., used to tell me that when she needed inspiration for the characters in her novels, she would go to the mall and watch people.

As I watch, I listen, and hope for a story.

When/where do you find your best stories?

http://www.esquire.com/fiction/napkinproject

Sometimes napkins are just better, especially when dining out. Why dirty your hands with ink on a hot date or scramble through your purse to find that crumpled-up receipt to write on when you could just reach across the table and grab a napkin?

This is what Esquire magazine had in mind when crafting “The Napkin Fiction Project.” At work today I stumbled across the project, in which Esquire mailed napkins to 250 different writers to see what they would write on them. Talk about alternative story forms! 

Some of the napkin narratives are borderline inappropriate, some are beautifully crafted, others are profound.

I like that there are photos of the napkins, but it would have been an even better project if there were a multimedia component to it. Maybe there could have been a video of a writer reading his/her tale, or a photo slideshow of the napkins, accompanied by snippets of audio from the writers. Even without the multimedia, though, this is still an interesting project.

What would your napkin say?

During my lunch break today, I decided to take a detour and go into a gift store down the street from Poynter. I was immediately drawn to a row of cards that featured poignant photographs of people. Somehow, the cards made me feel connected to the people in the photos, even though I obviously don’t know them.

Words started flooding my mind, and I felt compelled to write. Photos do that to me, turning on my mental carburetor and fueling my passion for the written word. So, I spent the $8 and bought the cards, slipping in a Winnie the Pooh card as well. After work, I headed to the bookstore. Surrounded by Gabriel Garcia Marquez books, I looked at the cards and free wrote. I often joke with my friends that I’m a “newsroom nerd.” I’ll admit, maybe all this sounds “nerdy,” but heck, if you’re stressed, tired or in a writing mood, this is a pretty cool exercise.

I had difficulty uploading the photos I took of the cards, so until my computer stops being so slow, I’m going to just write the words that came to mind when I looked at the cards:

Card with photo of a child with the quote: “To know the beauty of the clouds and wishes and wagons filled with dreams we must see through the eyes of a child.” — Curiosity, fervor, passion, insight, wonder, energy, life.

Card with photo of a sleeping baby lying on its back — Peace, innocence, serenity, comfort, joy.

Card with a little girl on the beach, covering her mom’s eyes — Childhood, special bond, fun, relaxing, longing, sacrifice.

Card with a little girl kissing/holding onto the cheeks of a little boy — Friendship, love, cuteness, bravery/courage, concentration, focus.

Card with image of Winnie the Pooh holding Piglet’s hand with the quote: “My very favorite things are small things.” — Connection, friendship, loyalty, joy, protection, simplicity.

I’m going to try to keep this post short …. but we’ll see how that goes. I’ve always been known to write overly long stories, poems, articles, etc. There is always so much to say and never enough space.

The English language is full of phrases that refer to the abbreviation of longer stories: “To make a long story short,” “In short,” “It’s a long story, I don’t want to get into it.” These phrases all seem to suggest that shorter is better. When it comes to writing, it depends. Sometimes, just cutting out single words or phrases from a story can chop down the piece by a couple hundred words. Adjectives are usually the first to fall prey to an editor’s red pen.

 I learned this quickly after writing phrases such as “firmly rooted”. If something is rooted, a writing coach recently reminded me, it is already firmly planted. Firmly is just plain old redundant. Or, better yet, “firmly is redundant.” After critiquing your own work, you start to get good at cutting away the clutter …

Jon Franklin talks about unwanted clutter in an American Journalism Review article dated 1993. The article is old, but I reference it because it is interesting to see how the basic principles of writing still hold true in today’s world of reporting/writing.  

One of the beauties of writing is that when so much else seems to change, the essentials of writing remain the same. The demands for certain types of writing can vary from time to time, though. Franklin alludes to this in his article when he noted 14 years ago that there seemed to be a resurgence in narrative journalism:

“The basic problem is that ours is a trendy business, given to wild pendulum swings. This year’s truth is next year’s fallacy, and if the industry’s attention span can be calculated by the periodic rediscovery of the killer bees story, then it’s about 12 to 15 years. And that is about how long it’s been since narrative journalism was practiced in most American newsrooms. Double that and you’re back to about 1970, which was the last time American journalism discovered that the strength of the print industry was making sense of the world.”

If only Franklin knew what would be considered the “strengths” of today’s newsrooms: video, audio, anything multimedia, shorter articles that get to the point. Narrative journalism still holds a special place in the heart of journalism, but the key lies in knowing that longer doesn’t mean wordier.

And here I go again … another long, but hopefully not too wordy, post.

What suggestions do you have for cutting away the clutter?

During our last week at Poynter, the summer fellows and I were asked to choose a theme song to describe ourselves and our time at the Institute. The songs ranged from classical to rap to classic rock. “Dancing Queen,” “Walk It Out,” and “Don’t Stop Believin,” were just a few of the songs on our play list.

I chose Freak Nasty’s “Da Dip”.

I dance to “Da Dip” frequently because it reminds me to take a mental break from the rigmarole of life. Listening to “Da Dip” makes me think of the time I made up a dance to the song and performed it during a talent show in the ninth grade. More recently, it reminds me of the time I dipped my way across a parking lot at the University of Virginia.

I had been on a Habitat for Humanity trip in Concord, N.C., and my group and I were staying at the university overnight on our way back to Providence. We wanted to make our last night together memorable, so instead of turning in early for the night, we ate dinner at a Mexican restaurant and then drove around in our white, 12-passenger van. We found rest next to a tennis court.

We started to throw a tennis ball around, but that got old quickly. So we decided to make use of the radio in our van and start dancing. We sang at the top of our lungs to Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie,” Beyonce’s “To the Left,” and to the oh-so-classic Spice Girls song, “Wannabe.” Bless the souls of the two guys who were with us.

Then we danced to “Da Dip.” I dipped and sang, and then dipped and sang some more, until my limbs hurt so much I thought I might get sick from too much double dipping.

But the dancing sets me free.

While in that parking lot, I didn’t care that I only had one day left to start and finish “The Late George Apley” for my Literature of Boston course, or that I had to start planning for the following week’s issue of our student newspaper, The Cowl. I only cared about having fun and surrounding myself with friends.

In college, dancing brought my friends and I together. Dance parties were always the precursor to our weekend evenings out on the town. Sophomore year our dance parties were at their best. Every Friday and Saturday night, 10 of us would gather in McDermott Hall and belt out the words to Madonna’s “Like a Prayer,” and Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance With Somebody.”

I often lost my voice by the time we actually made it out of the dorm, but it was worth it. And, it gave me a chance to practice my dancing. In seventh grade, I remember a boy teased me for the way I danced. Okay, maybe I was an arm flailer, and maybe I’m still a finger pointer, but I wasn’t ever as bad as, say, Elaine from Seinfeld. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5xi4O1yi6b0(Great episode!)  

In many ways, dancing is a catalyst for laughter. When I’m in the newsroom and in need of some smiles, I can’t help but get the urge to dance. So, when the Poynter fellows encouraged me to dance to “Da Dip” after five weeks of working hard in the newsroom, I did.

“I put my hand up on your hip, when you dip I dip, we dip.” My favorite line: “If you ain’t trippin’, you must be dippin’. If you ain’t doing it down low, gasta go, gasta go.” The copy editor in me wants to cringe when I hear these lyrics, but the dancer in me can’t help but sing along to them.

Like writing, singing and dancing help us put to words what we might not otherwise be able to articulate. It’s the beauty of expression that helps us describe who we are and who we want, or don’t want, to be.  

Next on my list: Become a better salsa dancer. http://www.nytimes.com/2007/07/29/arts/dance/29bloo.html

What’s your theme song/dance?

  

http://www.poynter.org/column.asp?id=101&aid=127490

We see glimpses of the war in Iraq on TV. We read about war stories in books. Maybe we even hear stories firsthand from loved ones fighting abroad. Martha Raddatz, chief White House correspondent and author of “The Long Road Home: A Story of War and Family,” and Rajiv Chandrasekaran, national editor of The Washington Post and author of uthor of “The Emperial Life in the Emerald City,” are great storytellers of the war.

While interviewing them for Poynter Online during Saturday’s “Community Conversation” event at the Poynter Institute, I was particularly curious about the way in which Chandrasekaran and Raddatz reported their stories. It became clear throughout the course of the interview, and through reading their books, that they carry what I like to call “journalistic shovels”.

They are the type of reporters who dig deep for the stories that are buried within the Iraqi soil. They listen for the voiceless and look for the people behind the Bush administration’s policies. The stories they relay are all the more powerful because of their in-depth reporting and their persistence in trying to get stories that went beyond the White House briefings. Raddatz noted that she often had to call back soldiers’ families on the phone multiple times after interviewing them to ask about tiny details. Though individually these details may have seemed insignificant, they ultimately added great depth to the overall story being told.

Anyhow, I’ve rambled enough. To read more about what Raddatz and Chandrasekaran had to say at Poynter, read my article at: http://www.poynter.org/column.asp?id=101&aid=127490. You can also check out the related podcast interview with Raddatz, which is posted within the body of the article. It was my first time editing audio and creating a podcast, so don’t be too harsh of a critic! 🙂 

http://www.icons-land.com/images/products/VistaEmoticonsPreview.jpg

A friend told me yesterday that he was banning me from ever using the exclamation point again. OK, I’ll admit it: I’ve been known to use a few too many exclamation points in Instant Message chats. I tried to justify my usage of them, telling my friend that I don’t ever use them in articles or in headlines. That would seem like a journalism faux paux.

In IM chats, though, it’s tough conveying emotion without some sort of exclamatory punctuation mark. When I’m excited about something, periods just won’t do. They seem so final, so serious, so abrupt. Ocassionally, I’ll throw in a “haha” or a “lol” to indicate that I’m “laughing out loud,” even though nine times out of 10, I’m really not. Now, if I write “hahahahhahaha,” then I’m usually laughing out loud.

One of my friends from college can’t write an e-mail to our group of friends without including at least a half dozen exclamation points. A recent, 317-word e-mail that she sent to me last month included 17 exclamation points. At the end, was a smiley face. :0)

The New York Times ran an interesting article today about these friendly little cyber faces, commonly referred to as “emoticons”. The article, entitled “(-: Just Between You and Me ;-)”, talks about the growing number of people who are using emoticons. These expressive symbols are no longer just for teenagers chatting casually online. Now, professionals are using them when sending e-mails. I suppose where punctuation fails, emoticons speak.

Emoticons, which seem to be more popular now than ever, have been around for longer than I thought. According to the Times article, they are about 25 years old. To find out about their history, read the Times article at: http://www.nytimes.com/2007/07/29/fashion/29emoticon.html.

The article also highlights the fact that emoticons arent’ always parentheses with colons. One emoticon for sadness, for instance, is a symbol of what looks like two eyes crying: “QQ”. And check out this emoticon of a bearded, sun-glass wearing man: B-) ===>

I find it interesting when people put a space in between the eyes and the smile of their smiley face when chatting on IM. When you don’t put a space, the black and white sideways smiley face turns into a yellow, upright smiley face. Just as I like exclamation points, I like brightly-colored smiley face, too.

What if emoticons started popping up in journalism? What if, you were reading a story and after the nutgraph about colleges raising the cost of tuition, there was a face of frustration? Or, what if journalists started using them after paragraphs in their story to convey the emotion displayed by the person they interviewed? I’m not suggesting this happen, and it’d probably be pretty weird if it did, but with the way things are going, it wouldn’t surprise me if emoticons crept their way into articles down the road.

They may be most fitting in columns, where subjectivity trumps objectivity, but either way, emoticons could be used to add flare to articles. More and more newspaper Web sites are asking people to submit videos and photos for publication. What if reporters asked people to start picking emoticons to go along with their quotes? I can just envision people calling the editor to complain about a reporters’ incorrect use of an emoticon … oh brother.

It might seem foolish to consider using emoticons in articles, but it’s also pretty interesting, especially in light of all the changes taking place in journalism and in general. Who would have thought 30 years ago that The New York Times would publish an article about punctuation marks that form smiley/sad faces? Who would have thought we’d have blogs, and that journalists would actually be encouraged to create them? Who knew the words “tag” and “friend” would become verbs with the creation of Facebook?

What’s next?

;>) 😮 !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 🙂 ;( 😉 ;| 8) !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!:( 🙂

Stories of serenity, hope, that keep us well

 

Photo taken by Don Holtz of National Geographic. 

As journalists, we’re often told we have to be objective. We’re advised not to get too close to our subject and to replace tears with stoic composures so as not to appear biased. Sometimes, though, we forget we’re not just journalists.

We’re humans.

We can’t pretend that everything is OK when really it’s not. So, we document what’s not OK. We reach for our notebooks, our cameras, our computer mouse, and start writing, snapping, clicking away.

I would think that when we document the world around us, we can’t help but include tidbits of our own experiences into the stories we tell. We may feel compelled to include the sadder details or memories, as so much of today’s news revolves around crime, death, war, etc.

But what about the happier stories? What about the stories of serenity, the stories of love, the stories of hope that often stem from the more tragic tales? These are the stories that can mend scars, broken hearts and open wounds.

In a recent “Writing Tools” column, Roy Peter Clark highlighted the need for stories about regeneration and hope. (http://www.poynter.org/column.asp?id=78&switch=true)

He writes:

“I once heard James Carey, the late scholar of journalism and culture, draw this analogy between journalism and psychiatry  (I quote him from memory): ‘When you go to a psychiatrist, he asks you to tell him a story. And he listens carefully to that story trying to hear the parts of the story that may be making you sick. His job is to help you tell another story about yourself, a story that will keep you well.’

Then he turned to journalism: ‘The stories journalists are telling about themselves these days are stories about degeneration and decay. Journalists need some new stories that will make them well, stories about hope and aspiration.’ ”

It may seem strange to think that as journalists we tell stories to “get well,” but it makes sense. Dan McAdams, professor of psychology and human development and social policy at Northwestern University has done some interesting research on this subject matter.

He found that the personal narratives of people’s lives change over time depending on such things as therapy, faith, romantic love, friendship, trauma and loss. Most recently, he has focused on “redemptive” stories that people  tell about themselves. To read more, check out McAdams’ bio: http://www.sesp.northwestern.edu/profile/?p=46&/DanMcAdams/

What’s your story?