In 12 years of being a reporter, I'd never covered a murder.
In my first few months working for the Bangor Daily News I've covered three plus an attempted murder where a guy was shot multiple times in the back and neck. Of those four cases, two remain unsolved.
Since joining the BDN I've been at the scene of three fatal accidents and at least five fires where the owners lost everything. I wrote about three infants in my area who died within four days of each other after bed-sharing with their parents. Journalism can be ugly, and the ugliness can start at any moment.
On the other hand, there are days when you meet people like the Logiodice family.
Those are the good days.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
J.D and me
I once held the crazy notion that J.D. Salinger might grant me an interview.
I was a college student in New Hampshire, not too far from Salinger's home. Having been an active student journalist since the tenth grade, I thought the fact I was a student might somehow persuade the great writer to end his decades-long silence and sit down for a chat. I wanted to know what I imagined everyone else wanted to know: why would he deprive the world of his gift?
Catcher first caught my attention in the eighth grade when I heard of a controversy in a freshman English class at the high school. Students were working on a group project that involved decorating bulletin boards around pieces of literature. One group titled theirs "The Goddamn Catcher in the Rye." Once again, Salinger's use of profanity had sparked a debate in a public school community. The incident was enough to spark my interest the novel and I received a crimson red copy of it that Christmas from my parents.
I read the whole thing in a few days. A few weeks later it rained one day and I read the whole thing again, sprawled across my bedroom floor until late that night. In the end, when Holden mentions being in a mental hospital, I realized the destructive power of pent-up emotion. Not since Beverly Cleary's "Dear Mr. Henshaw" had a book touched me so deeply. When it came my time to do a project in my Freshman American literature class, I chose Salinger's "Franny and Zooey." More importantly, writing became my emotional outlet.
In addition to striking a coming-of-age chord in me, my experience with Salinger triggered a life-long love of serious literature. Reading wonderful books continuously humbles me as a writer and makes me my own harshest critic. For that I am grateful. When I think I've put words down that I can be proud of, I measure them against Ernest Hemingway, or John Irving, or when it comes to character, J.D. Salinger. Part of mastery is never being satisfied.
I've thought of starting a blog for years. On most days, I experience something and think to myself, I could make a good little essay out of that. I call them "eyes wide open" experiences. When I heard of Salinger's death this week, I figured this is as good a time as any to start. So this is the beginning. Of what, I don't know.
I regret that I never tried for an interview with Salinger. Thanks to his death this week providing a little push that I needed, I no longer dream of being a blogger. I am one.
I was a college student in New Hampshire, not too far from Salinger's home. Having been an active student journalist since the tenth grade, I thought the fact I was a student might somehow persuade the great writer to end his decades-long silence and sit down for a chat. I wanted to know what I imagined everyone else wanted to know: why would he deprive the world of his gift?
Catcher first caught my attention in the eighth grade when I heard of a controversy in a freshman English class at the high school. Students were working on a group project that involved decorating bulletin boards around pieces of literature. One group titled theirs "The Goddamn Catcher in the Rye." Once again, Salinger's use of profanity had sparked a debate in a public school community. The incident was enough to spark my interest the novel and I received a crimson red copy of it that Christmas from my parents.
I read the whole thing in a few days. A few weeks later it rained one day and I read the whole thing again, sprawled across my bedroom floor until late that night. In the end, when Holden mentions being in a mental hospital, I realized the destructive power of pent-up emotion. Not since Beverly Cleary's "Dear Mr. Henshaw" had a book touched me so deeply. When it came my time to do a project in my Freshman American literature class, I chose Salinger's "Franny and Zooey." More importantly, writing became my emotional outlet.
In addition to striking a coming-of-age chord in me, my experience with Salinger triggered a life-long love of serious literature. Reading wonderful books continuously humbles me as a writer and makes me my own harshest critic. For that I am grateful. When I think I've put words down that I can be proud of, I measure them against Ernest Hemingway, or John Irving, or when it comes to character, J.D. Salinger. Part of mastery is never being satisfied.
I've thought of starting a blog for years. On most days, I experience something and think to myself, I could make a good little essay out of that. I call them "eyes wide open" experiences. When I heard of Salinger's death this week, I figured this is as good a time as any to start. So this is the beginning. Of what, I don't know.
I regret that I never tried for an interview with Salinger. Thanks to his death this week providing a little push that I needed, I no longer dream of being a blogger. I am one.
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