Guy Clark – Maybe I Can Paint Over That (fan-made video)
What I wouldn’t give for a proofreader some days. I’ve already made a few screw-ups on on this blog, though luckily you can fix those quickly now once you’re wife catches them.
it was hard on the soul when I made a bad one in the paper business. Write enough articles and you’re going to make a tone of mistakes. Especially when you’re chief cook and bottle washer and have to proof my your own copy
Word had a spell checker but there were so many other ways to mess up. Copy/paste mistakes really pissed me off cuz they were hard to explain. Lack of sleep was the best excuse I had.
You had to walk around with your head hanging low for a whole week. It really stung when you messed up a story you were proud of. you were proud of.
There were time4s when I was too exhausted to be embarrassed. I was like, oh well, I need to fill up a news hole on page 3. a correction will fill up this news hole on page 3. They’ll forgive me in a week. Maybe.
The tech we have gtoday would’ve helped if I’d had it back then. But then again I probably would’ve been laid off with the proofreading staff instead of sticking around till I felt like the Omega Man.
I wish somebody would write a song about a news editor that captured the way it felt when that was my vocation.
Closest I could find was “Newspapers” from Stan Ridgway (singer from Wall of Voodoo. Remember “Mexican Radio”?). He at least made an effort to see it the newsman’s way.
It was stressful, always being “on.” You never had enough help, but you got it done anyway. It wasn’t something you did, it was something you were. Until one day, you weren’t…
Stan Ridgway – Newspapers
Most songs about the news business take journalists to task for their bias – as we all should. But there’s another side: Staying till the end of a late night meeting so they wouldn’t slip something past you, driving pages to press yourself after an all-nighter, running racks on country roads late into the night.
I still can’t find a song about newsmen as good as “Wichita Lineman.” It’s not about us, but it captures some of that lonesome yet rewarding feeling. I tear up every time I hear that line, “I need you more than want you and I want you for all time.”
Yep, that was me, for a while. Sadly, “all time” is not something you can have.
I feel like songwriter Jimmy Webb would’ve understood. I like Glen Campbell’s version best, Friends of Dean Martinez’s spacey instrumental is also incredible.
Me, in the back of a friendly citizen’s pickup truck, about to cover a small town parade. I think growing a beard was a good move. Look at those chins…
I was so relieved to get out of print journalism, I burned my press card. The career of a lifetime, up in flames. (Actually just burned one corner. That shit stinks.)
All my friends had bailed. Corporate was making changes I just couldn’t stomach. I’d have less editorial control and I knew more layoffs were coming. I don’t know how I hung on so long.
But I do know why.
When it was good, it was so good — if you were cut out for it. We had a running joke in one place I worked, “I’m gonna move my car.” A cub reporter once went out to move her car on press day and never came back. Journalist isn’t just a job title. It’s an identity. One I tried hard to live up to for over 20 years.
Did I live up to it? Not always. But I tried.
I made a lot of friends and a lot of memories, but I also worked hard for not very much money, had to work weekends, nights and some holidays, had periods of great stress and loneliness. But I was hooked. You had to be.
At one newspaper we had a running joke. When things got rough in the newsroom somebody would say, “I’m gonna move my car!” A young reporter once went out to move her car and never came back. I admit I considered it a time or two.
Stressful as it was, there was nothing like the thrill of knowing you were the first to know. Even at a weekly or semi-weekly, you could scoop the dailies if you were good enough. At the very least you could have the best version.
Or the camaraderie you felt, all of us editorial folks working late so we could get a hot scoop into the next edition. We argued, told jokes in bad taste, had rubber band fights, threw paper wads at the ceiling fan. And we put out newspapers we were proud of. Then we’d race to the local bar and get trashed.
I wish I had appreciated it more. Eventually big box stores and the internet killed so many of our mom and pop advertisers, it was only a matter of time. I knew we were in trouble when the speaker at a convention tried to tell us our biggest competitor was the Yellow Pages.
They all found other jobs, one by one. Some saw the writing on the wall and found a job outside journalism. PR jobs, non-profits, state government. Others got laid off and their workloads fell on my shoulders. Press days got later and later. It sucked, but I kept convincing myself it would get better.
It was like trying to talk yourself out of a divorce you know is coming. I loved it once, maybe the magic would return. But deep down I knew better. I was getting too old for it and the outlook for journalism was grim.
I literally thought I was going to wind up homeless. I had a special backpack I planned to take on the road with me. Ultimately just would up using it as carry-on luggage.
I really miss the folks I worked with over the years. A bunch of crazy characters, yet creative and professional (most of ’em). None of the newspapers I worked for were big dailies, but I was proud of the issues we put out (most of ’em). Sometimes we even scooped the big city paper next door.
Late Boomer's Den 
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