My other little sister, Nicole, to me over skype last night.
This sums up our relationship perfectly.
While I type of the intricacies of Elizabeth I and Robert Dudley, here is a picture of a young me, a young Hallie and our dolls, Gerber Baby and Rose.
This was when I was in about third grade, so Rose had been through the wringer by that point. She was named after the roses on that pink dress, which came with her. The hat had been long-lost by that point (leaving her with that very mullet-y look). I have no idea how old I was when I got Rose, but old enough that when I graduated from Preschool, Rose got a certificate, too. She was a very smart doll. She didn’t speak Dollish (why does spell check think that’s actually a word, omg), she spoke English. She didn’t need me to translate, we all heard her. She could read. She liked to hear me sing.
Best doll ever.
i needed to stop reading or id be up all night ^_^
Pushing the book off the bed and twitching is the most accurate thing I’ve ever seen. It also involves kicking.
I brought my Truman home a ribbon that came on one of my Christmas presents, and now he has a bowtie so he can be SEC Classy.
I, with all my sage advice of having actually gone through what you’re about to do, have some advice for you. But since we don’t have that time machine yet, this is actually for the new reporters of the next semester. But I’m going to address this as if it’s going to you, and maybe someone will be as weird as you are and relate to this. I hope so.
The first thing you need to know is that Katherine is going to laugh at almost everything in this post. That’s important, because Katherine’s not as scary as she looks. Most of the time. Also, she’ll enjoy laughing at you (you too, new kids… just wait). Don’t worry about it. It’s when she’s not laughing that you might need to worry. She’s also, as Allyson will say, “a mythical creature.” Four people really can look all around the newsroom for her only to have her pop up and laugh at you for texting her when she’s clearly right there.
I’m going to blow through a few more things before I lose you in my rambles. Even though I shouldn’t lose you since you’re fascinated by the fact that your future is contacting you, right?
First: Know the email for the Missourian copy desk. KNOW IT. It will help you avoid your biggest catastrophe of the semester. How big of a catastrophe? We’re talking about using writing “Zoning Girl” over a still from Black Swan for this blog.
Second: Ask Liz Brixey about her lizard suit. Really. I can’t tell you about the lizard suit; I’d never be able to relay it well enough. But the thing about the lizard suit is that you can’t ask about it until you’re really freaked out about covering something. Once you get nice and nervous, ask her. You’ll thank me for it.
If she notices you’re freaked out, she may tell you voluntarily. But you really should ask her, because it’s the best reporting technique you’ll learn in this class. I have my own lizard suit, but it’s different. Her name is Zoning Girl, and she wears heels, curls her hair and kicks ass.
(Also, this isn’t my first-hand tip to give, but from what I’ve seen, if you’re on Liz’s beat you might want to brush up on your commas.)
Third: stories need to be done by 11, but if your event runs over that, the deadline for everything to be out of our hands is midnight. Scott would probably prefer you know that.
Fourth: don’t count on the internet on your phone at the Boone Building (City Hall), and don’t count on being able to hear your ringtone over the noise outside the Council Chambers.
Fifth: get a phone with internet on it. Your apartment internet is crap, and you’re going to need access to your email on weekends.
Sixth: That TIF district story you do just to get your first story in the Missourian is going to come up again. Really. You won’t have to do anything about it, but you’ll laugh when someone mentions TIF districts in a 3 hour public comment section toward the end of the semester. It’s handy to know.
Seventh: It may sound like you have more time than you do because you only have one assigned shift every two weeks, but you’ll always be in there anyway. Don’t worry, for some reason most of the education beat will always be there, too, so you’ll have friends.
Eighth: You’re going to need a good theme song.
Ninth: You’re going to spend the semester running around like a lunatic and literally shaking as you write your stories, all out of a mix of nerves and a jumbled up mess of reporter mode that you will make part of being Zoning Girl. Get used to it. And be nice to the considerably calmer reporters who will plug your laptop in for you so you don’t electrocute yourself.
Tenth: Don’t take Archaeology of Religion this semester. It’s a mistake.
Eleventh: You’re never going to see your roommate. Ever. Especially the one that works at KOMU (she’ll have more free time than you do, by the way, just saying). You’re going to have times when you run into her at the coffee shop after literally not seeing her for three days.
Twelfth: You’re also going to have times when the both of you come back from a bad day at work and take turns crying for two hours. You’re going to literally spill blood, sweat and tears over this class.
Thirteenth: Everyone else is freaked out, too. Actually, they’re more freaked out than you are. At the end of the semester, you’re going to find out about how everyone who did a great job this year cried the first week and you’re going to be astonished. You’re also going to feel pretty badass for not crying until the end of September.
Now, for the big advice: Jump in. Jump right in and don’t think about the reasons you shouldn’t. Remember how you always liked swimming under water better than swimming above the water as a kid? This semester’s going to be like that. You’re going to be completely and totally in over your head, but in the best way possible.
Allow me to elaborate, because this is where the story comes in. RUN FOR THE STORY.
Spoiler alert! Here’s what you do this semester.
Katherine urges everyone on the Public Life beat to go ask Scott for the story. After lecture you run to Scott’s office and ask for the follow-ups after the news breaks that Regency is going through a rezoning process. He’ll laugh, but he’ll give it to you. And even though his first inclination is to start thinking about the boring stuff like plans, that won’t be what you do. The first story you’re going to do about Regency is going to be a really emotional outpouring where residents of the park try to figure out what their options are.
And you’re going to feel really uncomfortable about it. You’re going to wonder what on earth you’re doing reporting on this story. You’re going to facebook stalk the reporter who did the two previous stories and find out that he graduated from high school nine years before you did. (You’re going to become really good at Facebook stalking this semester, by the way. Even compared to the considerable talent you had in the area before). It’s going to freak you out that he’s so much older than you. You’re going to wonder how a five-foot tall, 20-year-old girl is going to be able to pass herself off as a reporter when her real qualifications for covering the story amount to a single story about the rezoning of an empty piece of land. You’re going to feel tiny and insignificant, and you’re going to feel like maybe you can’t do this.
And then you’re just going to do it.
My advice is that you stop comparing yourself to the previous reporter sooner. As in, from the start. Because, here’s the thing: by the end of it, you’re going to know more than he does. It’ll come as a shock when the ACE tells you that you know more about this topic than anyone in Columbia. It’s going to shock you more when Scott says it, too. You’re going to beat report the hell out of this story, and you’re going to be astonished when you see what the gap is. You’re also going to finally understand parachute reporting, and be disgusted with how it can happen within the same town as the media outlets doing it.
You’re going to learn how to ask hard questions. You’re going to learn how to keep asking a question until you finally get a real answer. You’re going to learn how to ask the questions that need answers.
It’s a process. I can’t really tell you how to do it. You just do it. The thing is, you’ll learn.
You’re going to have to come up for air sometimes, too. You’re going to have to make sure you pass your other classes. Especially that damn archaeology class. You’re going to spend most of Thanksgiving break trying to recuperate from what this class has done to your health.
But you’re going to spend your semester totally immersed in this stuff.
Lastly: If you really give it your all, this is going to end up to be the most rewarding semester of your life.
thing I used to do all the time.
EVERY DAY. My family gives me so much trouble about this.
(Source: nerdquirks)
