News
ENLARGE
These may be the last words I’ll ever write for a newspaper.
I found out last week that I am joining a growing list of journalists — in Colorado and around the country — who have been laid off, victims of substantial drops in advertising and a lousy economy.
Summit Daily Publisher Jim Morgan has reminded me on a couple of occasions that we shouldn’t feel sorry for ourselves in this business — there are millions of other people who have lost their jobs in this recession, as well — and that few outside the business really care about the inner workings of the newsroom.
I agree with the former and dispute the latter.
In my 19 years in newspapers, I have formed many bonds with sources and readers, and I’ve found that a surprising number of people pay attention to our work and remember our stories, even if we’ve never met. Loyal readers recognize that there are real people behind the bylines.
In many ways, journalism is a thankless job: The media is an easy target for cynics, cranks and critics, and, frequently, their condemnations are deserved. Journalists chase the trivial and titillating too often at the expense of doing real reporting, digging, checking out the facts and getting them right. And when we make mistakes, well, let’s just say that there are few other jobs in the world that elicit as much scrutiny and generate as many brickbats. (I keep pinned on a bulletin board above my desk the first correction I ever had to print, and it continues to gnaw at me. Despite his graciousness, I apologize again to University of Denver Professor Ved Nanda for transposing his initials!)
In other respects, however, this business has its own rewards: Journalists give themselves more prizes than any other industry outside Hollywood, and, more substantially, there is immeasurably deep satisfaction in pulling together a complex story, polishing it until it shines, seeing your hard labor in print and hearing readers talking about it in the barber shop and the grocery-store line.
Newsrooms themselves are wonderful places, filled with fascinating, smart people who have wicked senses of humor and a real passion for their work. At deadline on a busy day, they positively crackle with electricity, with reporters, editors, photographers and copy editors operating on all cylinders. It’s pure magic — too bad we are usually too absorbed in our work to really appreciate it.
I started my career with uncommon good fortune, turning a college internship with The Denver Post into a full-time job. I knew at the time I was incredibly lucky — very few young reporters ever get their chance at papers that size — but I also poured my heart and soul into the opportunity: I even skipped my graduation ceremony because I had a normal, everyday work shift that I felt compelled to honor.
My first story as a professional was about efforts to move an oversized historic brick mansion, very slowly, right down the middle of Denver’s Colfax Avenue. Walking alongside the newly mobile home, then-Gov. Roy Romer eagerly told me — little ol’ starry-eyed me! — that he wouldn’t have missed the spectacle for anything.
“How can you not be excited and interested in something like this?” he said.
Indeed, I never lost that enthusiasm for good stories, always like a little kid watching a fire truck roaring down the streets, ablaze with its lights and sirens.
Over the years, I traveled literally around the world and “Forrest Gump-ed” my way through some of the biggest stories in the state and beyond — meeting presidents and the pope; covering plane crashes and sensational crimes; recounting heartwarming tales of heroic dogs and selfless, inspiring people; and chronicling the human side of war. And for 10 glorious years, I had the absolute best job in journalism as the Post’s one-man mountain bureau, tromping around the region in pursuit of whatever issues tickled my fancy.
Last May, though, I was delighted to be offered a job as news editor with the Daily, believing that small-town newspapers these days capture the essence of news — what’s really important to readers — better than the big-city papers. I saw this as an opportunity to take my career in a new direction as a manager and to serve as a mentor and guide for the aspiring young staff here.
Unfortunately, the same economic forces are at play here as what led to the demise of the venerable Rocky Mountain News, and since October, we’ve been bleeding red ink and slashing staff to the point that there are but eight people standing in the newsroom after my departure.
I leave the newspapers reluctantly and not at all by choice. I might say that I don’t feel sorry for myself, but truth be told, I am saddened. Journalism, it is said, is a calling, not a job, and being a newspaper reporter has been my complete identity.
It has been a pleasure to tell you all those stories, and I truly appreciate that you have read my words. Thank you for indulging me. And please write me at slipsher@comcast.net if you hear of any jobs!
I found out last week that I am joining a growing list of journalists — in Colorado and around the country — who have been laid off, victims of substantial drops in advertising and a lousy economy.
Summit Daily Publisher Jim Morgan has reminded me on a couple of occasions that we shouldn’t feel sorry for ourselves in this business — there are millions of other people who have lost their jobs in this recession, as well — and that few outside the business really care about the inner workings of the newsroom.
I agree with the former and dispute the latter.
In my 19 years in newspapers, I have formed many bonds with sources and readers, and I’ve found that a surprising number of people pay attention to our work and remember our stories, even if we’ve never met. Loyal readers recognize that there are real people behind the bylines.
In many ways, journalism is a thankless job: The media is an easy target for cynics, cranks and critics, and, frequently, their condemnations are deserved. Journalists chase the trivial and titillating too often at the expense of doing real reporting, digging, checking out the facts and getting them right. And when we make mistakes, well, let’s just say that there are few other jobs in the world that elicit as much scrutiny and generate as many brickbats. (I keep pinned on a bulletin board above my desk the first correction I ever had to print, and it continues to gnaw at me. Despite his graciousness, I apologize again to University of Denver Professor Ved Nanda for transposing his initials!)
In other respects, however, this business has its own rewards: Journalists give themselves more prizes than any other industry outside Hollywood, and, more substantially, there is immeasurably deep satisfaction in pulling together a complex story, polishing it until it shines, seeing your hard labor in print and hearing readers talking about it in the barber shop and the grocery-store line.
Newsrooms themselves are wonderful places, filled with fascinating, smart people who have wicked senses of humor and a real passion for their work. At deadline on a busy day, they positively crackle with electricity, with reporters, editors, photographers and copy editors operating on all cylinders. It’s pure magic — too bad we are usually too absorbed in our work to really appreciate it.
I started my career with uncommon good fortune, turning a college internship with The Denver Post into a full-time job. I knew at the time I was incredibly lucky — very few young reporters ever get their chance at papers that size — but I also poured my heart and soul into the opportunity: I even skipped my graduation ceremony because I had a normal, everyday work shift that I felt compelled to honor.
My first story as a professional was about efforts to move an oversized historic brick mansion, very slowly, right down the middle of Denver’s Colfax Avenue. Walking alongside the newly mobile home, then-Gov. Roy Romer eagerly told me — little ol’ starry-eyed me! — that he wouldn’t have missed the spectacle for anything.
“How can you not be excited and interested in something like this?” he said.
Indeed, I never lost that enthusiasm for good stories, always like a little kid watching a fire truck roaring down the streets, ablaze with its lights and sirens.
Over the years, I traveled literally around the world and “Forrest Gump-ed” my way through some of the biggest stories in the state and beyond — meeting presidents and the pope; covering plane crashes and sensational crimes; recounting heartwarming tales of heroic dogs and selfless, inspiring people; and chronicling the human side of war. And for 10 glorious years, I had the absolute best job in journalism as the Post’s one-man mountain bureau, tromping around the region in pursuit of whatever issues tickled my fancy.
Last May, though, I was delighted to be offered a job as news editor with the Daily, believing that small-town newspapers these days capture the essence of news — what’s really important to readers — better than the big-city papers. I saw this as an opportunity to take my career in a new direction as a manager and to serve as a mentor and guide for the aspiring young staff here.
Unfortunately, the same economic forces are at play here as what led to the demise of the venerable Rocky Mountain News, and since October, we’ve been bleeding red ink and slashing staff to the point that there are but eight people standing in the newsroom after my departure.
I leave the newspapers reluctantly and not at all by choice. I might say that I don’t feel sorry for myself, but truth be told, I am saddened. Journalism, it is said, is a calling, not a job, and being a newspaper reporter has been my complete identity.
It has been a pleasure to tell you all those stories, and I truly appreciate that you have read my words. Thank you for indulging me. And please write me at slipsher@comcast.net if you hear of any jobs!
