THE DAY: January 24th, 2oo8
THE TIME: 7:50 pM
THE MUSIC: Fake Plastic Trees; Radiohead
THE MOMENT: Sepia Gold Saturation.
Last week after News Writing I scribbled this down in my Humanities class.
"I hope to one day be spiraling up the stairs of the Brimhall building with my strawberry popsicle... and for someone to say "That's Lyndsi Shae, She's a writer... and she shook up this place."
For now I frolic around the floors like it's where I belong-- I hope it is."
THE DAY: February 1st, 2oo8
THE TIME: 5:45 pM
THE MUSIC: I need a boss; Shareefa
THE MOMENT: Another revolution.
I feel like so much of journalism is about sacrificing your perspective.
They write objectively,
Writing is the way they fulfill their purpose-- which is to inform.
My purpose is to write.
I don't want to inform the public, I want to liberate the public.
I don't want to sketch out the latest politics. I hate politics. I'm not here to hand you an inverted pyramid story with a direct lead that gives it all away in the first sentence.
They do that.
That way the least important stuff is at the bottom, so someone can chop off the ending and fit it into a column of grey paper.
Reality: I've only been in real communications classes for a few weeks and already I feel like I'm losing my voice. I like endings. I like my soul. I think I'll keep it thanks.
I may be walking away from this mess.
I'm talkin bust out like a woman been cheated on.
English major anyone?