What an honor

I don't feel any different.

On Saturday, I was informed that I (along with several other writers from my company) was being honored by the New England Newspaper and Press Association for our coverage in the aftermath of the devastating June 1 tornado. (Let us not get into the fact that I didn't find out about said honor until the day of the ceremony and thus was unable to attend due to a previous commitment, but I digress.)

All I remember of work from that period of time was that I was a bundle of nerves; worried for my town and my friends who were affected, worried for the newspaper that would be responsible for covering said destruction, and worried about my own newspaper, which despite the fact that I was asked to cover another community, still had to go to press on its normal deadline...with at least a few bylines from yours truly.

I cried a lot in those days; it was exhausting work. I wrote a column about my personal tornado experience that ran in several of our publications, not necessarily because I was required to do so, but because I needed to express myself in some way, and writing that piece seemed like the easiest way to do it. I wasn't personally affected (unless you count some surface damage to my car from corresponding hail), but I was affected in the sense that I was a member of the community that suffered a huge loss. It's difficult being a journalist and having to take a step back from what's so intensely personal to be an impartial observer.

Now, eight months later, I can breathe a little easier, especially in light of the fact that our hard work and dedication was actually recognized.

I'm officially an award-winning journalist. After years of slaving away, chasing all manner of calamity and destruction in the name of news... I am one of the elite.

So why don't I feel any different, dammit?

For a brief moment, I was on Cloud Nine... then reality hit and I realized I needed to put together another edition of my paper and, despite having been honored as a hardworking journalist, I had to actually, you know, BE a hardworking journalist.

Sigh. No rest for the weary, I guess.

On second thought, perhaps I do feel differently. Now, unlike before, I have something to live up to.

And surpass...

Oh crap.

Somebody, for the love of all that is holy, do something newsworthy so I can get to work!

It's been awhile

The more I write, the less I want to write.

It's been awhile since I've written anything here, but not for lack of trying. I just don't seem to have the wherewithal to write anything for myself once I satisfy my professional writing requirements. Truth be told: I'm sick of having to think... and type.

That's not to say that I don't have ideas free-floating in my mind; I just haven't felt like sitting down and actually fleshing anything out.

I'm such a bad writer.

Perhaps my saving grace here is that I've been reading a great deal more than usual. If reading is the barometer by which I measure my happiness in life (the more I read, the happier I am, usually), then I must be positively gleeful these days. The good thing about that is when I read voraciously, it usually helps my writing. Professionally that's a good thing. Personally, not so much.