On Writing Well
My husband and I sat in the small chairs at the small table. I, uncomfortable because I could not cross my legs.
Maria’s teachers sat opposite us, looking perfectly comfortable, and told us lovely things about our daughter during the parent/teacher conference yesterday. I would have sat on broken glass to hear some of the things they said.
I am gushing. Prepare to deal.
Our child, nearly 6, is a good friend. She is organized and neat and interested and here is some news that made us both proud and ill a little: “She loves to play with words, she just really enjoys experimenting with words,” her teacher said.
“Just as long as she doesn’t want to be a reporter,” said my husband, a newspaper reporter for three decades.
We have cringed at the thought of our-daughter-the-writer more than a few times. We witness her facility with language, we read the stories she writes. Neither one of us remembers being in her league at 5. (For me, 25, maybe. Maybe.) Gush, gush, gush.
But, cringe, cringe, cringe each time we hear about another round of newspaper lay-offs or total shut-downs. Hell, even reading about the popularity, and future, of downloadable books freaks us out a little. We like paper.
When our conference finished, I headed to a reunion with my former co-workers — reporters, editors, photographers and graphic designers — with whom I hung out for more than a decade, putting out Nashville’s news of the day. I covered fires on winter nights with some of them, had lunch daily for years, got my “prose” hacked and, um, got my ass handed to me during at least a few annual reviews. (I was a cranky, big mouth…at least by Southern standards.)
Many of the people present no longer are working journalists; some by choice, some by circumstance of lay-offs and buy-outs. But, the ink still runs through the veins and whenever we get together, it is like a funky-family reunion. Or, maybe more like a gathering of survivors. Not sure. But, if I wasn’t so old and tired I would have gotten drunk, hung all over them and kept repeating: “I love you, man! I love you!”
I miss my people. Often. Even the crazy ass ones. And, I truly did enjoy what I did…when I wasn’t cursing, complaining or crying, anyway.
My daughter tells me she wants to be a dancer and an artist when she grows up. (Great. Other poorly paying work-your-culo-off professions…) But, if I am honest, I admit to being secretly joyful that we apparently have passed on a vital part of our essence to Maria, one that will help her regardless of what she chooses for herself.
But, if the economy keeps tanking and print publications keep disappearing, I’m going to enroll her in Science Camp every summer.
On that, you can bet your own ass.
