The Fearless Journalist

The Market Street Emporium is reflected in flood waters on Second Avenue in downtown Nashville May 4, 2010. A weekend storm system dumped more than 13 inches of rain on the city, causing more than $1 billion in damage and killing at least 20 people in Tennessee. (Photo by Carmen K. Sisson/Cloudybright)

Years ago, friends started calling my road missives The Disaster Girl Chronicles. It’s apt. But nine times out of 10, I bring the Disaster of the Day on my own head through lack of planning, lack of preparedness, lack of courage, or just plain lack. Why share my screw-ups with the world? Because it holds me accountable. It forces me to face my mistakes in black and white, suck it up, stare them down, and try to improve. There’s no point in hashing over what went right. Today’s byline is tomorrow’s trash. So three weeks, four states, and too many interstates later, what have I learned?

The early bird gets the press credential. If you want to photograph the president, apply for credentials ASAP. Don’t leave it up to your editor. Editors are busy. Make their lives — and your own — easier. Leave nothing to chance. I sent an email to my editor 18 hours before the credential deadline. The next morning, I sent a follow-up. No reply. I didn’t want to go against him and apply for credentials on my own; I thought that would be overstepping my bounds. The White House deadline came and went. No credentials. The application website was pulled down. Two hours later, I got the okay from my editor. Frantically, I emailed the press secretary. No dice. Obama delivered a historic speech while I sat in a hotel room and watched it on television, kicking myself, knowing it was my fault.

F/8 and be there. Never leave the camera in the car. Never leave the notebook in the hotel room. Do you really want to be stuck with an iPhone and a paper napkin when news unfolds in front of you? If you want to be “off,” don’t be a journalist. Seriously. There is no “off.” Ever. Deal with it.

Vanity will get you killed. For many years, my car carried personalized plates: “PHOTOG.” I was proud of being a photographer, and when I switched more heavily to writing, I changed my car tag to “WRYTER.” Poking around the back hills of West Virginia, asking questions people didn’t want to answer, traversing roads where my bright orange GrandAm screamed “not from ‘round here,” I felt like a moving target. We’re supposed to write the headline, not become one. We’re called to blend in, move lightly and leave no trace. What the hell was I thinking? I wasn’t.

It only takes a second to make the last mistake you’ll ever make. We work in a dangerous business. I haven’t spent a lot of time covering spot news, and it shows. Standing in water, staring at a streetlight nearly submerged in the same fetid soup, I reached out to grab a metal railing. “DON’T TOUCH THAT!” Would I have been electrocuted? Probably not. But Kentucky photojournalist Billy Suratt was smart enough to consider the possibility. It never occurred to me, not because I’m stupid, but because I wasn’t thinking.

Print is not dead. iPhones, GPS units — they’re great. But when you’re sitting on the side of the road, lost, in a no-coverage zone, you’ll be grateful for that wrinkled Atlas.

Never let yourself get below half a tank of gas. When it’s 4 a.m. and you’re in a town that shuts down at 10 p.m., you don’t want to be searching for an open gas station.

Sleep is for the dead. If you want the story, chase it. When the byline hits, you can sleep the sleep of the righteous. Until then, keep your eyes open and your body upright — or watch every journalist in the country eat your lunch. I was exhausted throughout most of this trip, and I slept far more than I usually allow. Did I need the sleep? Probably. Did it solve the exhaustion? Not really. My time would have been better spent working.

Nix the junk food. I live off Pop Tarts, cigarettes, cheeseburgers, and coffee. My diet does little to help the mind-blowing fatigue. I’m dizzy all the time. I feel awful. Vitamins and a decent diet would probably do wonders for my energy levels. Why do I persist in fueling my body with the temporary “fix” of the moment? It’s counter-productive, a by-product of too much time on the road. It’s a habit I need to lose — fast.

Carry a flashlight. When you’re hiking down a mountain in the dark, slipping over moss-slickened rocks, hoping you won’t pitch headfirst into a river gorge, you’ll be grateful to at least see the snake you’re about to step upon.

Wear boots. (See aforementioned snake. If I had encountered one, my cheap Walmart tennis shoes wouldn’t have offered much protection.)

If you’re going to Memphis, bring a raincoat. I laughed when I saw girls wearing cute mud boots and rain slickers on a sunny afternoon at the Beale Street Music Festival. I wasn’t laughing nearly so much a few hours later as I trudged to my car in an end-times type deluge. Walking in the rain only sounds romantic in songs. In reality, it’s cold, wet, and miserable. It’s Memphis. It will rain. Plan for it.

Bring more money than you need. I had enough money for my hotel room — or so I thought. I didn’t realize additional funds would be held from my bank account in reserve as a pseudo-deposit. My error caused dozens of overdraft fees and slashed my budget into very expensive little pieces. By the last day, I couldn’t even afford food.

Pitch hard, pitch wide, and follow through, even when an editor says no. I pitched a story on the Nashville flooding to Reuters. They politely declined. Instead of writing the story anyway, I curled in a ball and sulked. I was disappointed. Frustrated. The next morning, a reporter called and asked if I could add some on-the-ground color to his story. Problem: He needed it right then, and I was more than three hours away, back in Memphis. At that point, I should have returned to Nashville. Instead, I curled in a ball and sulked some more. That evening, when he decided to write a follow-up, he called. Problem: I was in Montgomery, headed back to Mobile. I blew a story for Reuters. REUTERS. Way to go, slick.

If you’re going to drive 10 hours, get some sleep. I struggled through the drive from Kentucky to Mobile with little more than a wing and a prayer to keep me alive. Muddling through blinding fog, trying to navigate the bridge crossing the Mobile River with zero sleep, is asking for trouble. Just don’t do it. I have no idea how I survived.

Move on. I’m back in Mobile, ticked off, knowing I should be in Louisiana covering the oil spill, which breached the Chandeleur Islands Thursday. Why am I here? I have to be at a family gathering Saturday, then my mother has surgery Tuesday. Fine. Tomorrow is Friday. When daylight breaks, I need to be headed south. It’s 2 a.m., and I’m not even asleep yet. I tie my own hands. I’m depressed and irritated with myself, but what does that accomplish? Absolutely nothing.