The Fearless Journalist

Bridge over New River Gorge in West Virginia. (Photo by Carmen K. Sisson/Cloudybright)

Three months ago, I closed the door on my old life. Tonight, I’m in a hotel room in Memphis, Tenn., broke, without so much as a clean pair of socks, but still alive. Still alive. When I stop to think about all I’ve experienced in the past 90 days, I am overwhelmed, humbled by the unmerited grace which sustains.

It’s hard to argue in favor of this business model. I have little trouble obtaining assignments; getting publications to pay travel costs is trickier. I’m hemorrhaging money.

A few weeks ago, I had a commercial photography gig that funded a whirlwind trip to West Virginia, where I spent my days navigating the winding lanes of coal mine country, writing for Christian Science Monitor, and exploring the beautiful surroundings. Seeing the fog hanging over the mountains, chugging truck stop coffee and watching the sun rise over yet another interstate in yet another city, hiking in the dark at New River Gorge, laughing until I couldn’t breathe while watching Kentucky photojournalist Billy Suratt playing ball with my dog, shooting trainloads of coal in eastern Kentucky, holding a Zippo in the rain while hearing a favorite band play at the Beale Street Music Festival, eating chocolate Easter bunnies in bed, getting drenched by the Memphis rain  — these are experiences I wouldn’t trade.

It was a messed up trip. Nothing went right. I made mistakes. I passed up stories I should have chased. I spent money I didn’t have. But I’d do it all again.

And therein lies the problem. As long as I’m in constant motion, chasing the next horizon, I’m ok. When I point my car south and head towards Mobile, towards the place that is home but is not home, I am forced to face the truth: I don’t know what I’m doing with my life. I believe in journalism more strongly than ever, but I’m disillusioned by non-existent travel budgets, rights-grabbing contracts, low pay, slow pay, and no pay.

I’m even more disheartened by a growing trend: “derivative” journalism. When I see a hot story breaking, I immediately begin assessing my finances, trying to figure out how to make it to the scene. A conversation with a friend made me realize I’m doing it wrong. Many journalists are filing stories from hundreds of miles away, pulling info and color from a hodge-podge of internet sources, making a few phone calls, adding a dash of analysis, and spinning it into something new.

It’s an easy byline. It’s what I should be doing. It’s bullshit.

There was a time when no editor worth his China marker would allow a story to be written that way. Either your feet touched the pavement, or your story hit the circular file. Now, they not only advocate it — they demand it. There’s no money to send people across the country. There’s no time. AOL, CNN, Google, they will all have the story posted, tweeted, retweeted, and spread across the globe before an out-of-town journalist can make it through airport security.

I want to be on the ground. I want to see the mud, feel the rain, stand knee-deep in the flood and stare into a survivor’s eyes. Editors want this too. I know they do. But we are all trapped on this new hamster wheel, trying to stay alive.

I dread returning to my family, penniless once more. Being a journalist is like being trapped in a bad marriage. You end up making the same excuses over and over: I know I’m being used, but I’m still in love. I know my heart is going to get broken, but I don’t care. I know I’m going to end up with nothing to show for my devotion but empty words on a fading piece of paper, but I can’t leave.

I’ve lost so many people in my life. Sometimes I feel caught in a revolving door, always on the wrong side of hello. Journalism is my foundation. It’s the one thing that can never be snatched from my hands.

Psychologists say you have to find that stability within yourself. Find your center, find your place, breathe easy in your own skin. My center is the road. My place is wherever I have a story.

And so, as the second quarter of this adventure begins, I’m pressing forward. Sink or swim, I will not stand rooted in fear.