Ah, the glory of being a city-desk reporter. Or editor. Or something. Hell, I'm just a stringer. And it's not so much a "city-desk" as a "small town-desk".
I mean, the town is small, not the desk. There isn't even a desk, really, just a cell phone that my editor calls on to tell me what to cover, write about.
Again, not entirely true. Doing the wildcat thing makes it incumbent that I chase down the stray story, since I'm getting paid by the piece. The light posting here the past few days has been a reflection of that. Attending meetings, making calls, dropping in on town officials, stirring things up to see what rises from within the mire, all in the service of a few column inches; this past week has been balls to the wall. And if the gods are with me (my editor seems to be), I'll have five articles to my name in this latest edition.
Working hard for a pittance, yes - but having the time of my life. And sometimes, compensation is not measured by the size of paycheck, at least not for me. One of the reasons I stayed in the mental health field for so long was decidedly not because I thought I'd get rich; with the exception of a driven few or the therapists on the tee vee, people in the mental health field are not motivated by wealth. The more I work at this journalsim gig, the more the same seems to be true of my colleagues, that money is not the motivation.
Posting everyday (as I've been attempting to do the past week or so) isn't as easy as it sounds... WAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!