Journalism in the 21st Century

OK, my hands are shaking as I write this. Bobs of sweat are forming on my temples. Are they bobs or globs? I don't know - I'm nervous. Just talking about stress interviews makes me crazy. As a journalist, I've been through some stressful interviews, but always sail through because I'm on the proper side of the discussion. I am asking the questions. The stress comes because: a) a PR has decided to get on the phone with us and thereby direct the interview (or try to) or b) some bigshot has decided to put me on speaker (happens fifty percent of the time) and when I ask to be taken off, acts like I have a hearing disorder or c) someone has decided he doesn't really want to answer any questions so much as suggest how I should write the story. So given all of the preceding stressful situations you'd think I'd be equipped to just show up at some suit's office, look pretty, calm, collected (what am I collecting? armpit sweat?) and sell myself. But I'm no Mar

Edward's cousin worked at Cantor Fitzgerald. I would hear about his cousin's death when Edward came into Barnes & Noble in Westport, where I began working in October, 2001 after my job in New York came to an end that August. Edward was very depressed. He just wanted something of his brother's, wanted to go back, touch the site. I believe he got a sweater of the cousin's. Then there was the time I was wrapping a child's gift. I smiled, "Who's it for?" The patron, stonefaced, told me "her father died in the attacks." *** Moving to New York in 2001, I had a choice of either living in the city or moving farther out into the 'burbs. I chose the latter, but commuted into Midtown Manhattan, where I worked as a real estate writer for Rubenstein Associates. This PR firm happened to have represented, and still does, Larry Silverstein Properties. I had no idea who Silverstein was, but I knew this was all pretty fancy. I also knew that New York w

Those who believe in Fate know it comes in all types: good, bad, and somewhere in between. Yet, fortunes are made on the advice of sages who predict nothing but starlight and roses, a yellow-brick-road of riches and romance into perpetuity--she shows equanimity, and it’s up to all of us to read the signs. Moving east When my regular freelance job came to a screeching halt in the spring of 2001, I didn’t want to give up my dream of moving to the east coast. I’d been writing articles each month for a CBS/Winstar startup, and had been having a ball. My producers were grooming me to come out and try my luck at a promotion. Yet thanks to Ch. 11, that dissipated somewhere between a check that was never cut and my resolve to trade bikinis for parkas. I was leaving Ventura, California. A contact at a top PR company in Manhattan, Rubenstein Associates, told me I was one of the most pleasant journalists he knew. He was so sorry I’d lost the freelance gig, so perhaps he could connect me with his

I've been covering the BP oil spill and its effects on people, marine life and wildlife for over a year. I can't fully explain why I've felt so passionate about this subject other than this has been the United States' biggest environmental crisis ever, capping the well was a gripping, internationally-relevant news story, and my memories of swimming in the Gulf of Mexico as a child are among my happiest souvenirs. But perhaps, no certainly, what's driven me through all of this is the people of the Gulf of Mexico, specifically those around Grand Isle, LA and Orange Beach, AL, whose stories continue to compel me daily. I've befriended a few of these folks on Facebook including top toxicologist Riki Ott, been invited to speak on the spill at UGA and attended a NOLA task force meeting on restoring the ecosystem. The stories of the people of the Gulf should inspire all journalists, but unfortunately, in the words of one source the media and big business are too

After feeling like a schmo for telling a PR off last night, I realized it was time to write this credo for my flack friends everywhere. Note, I didn't so much tell them off as point out the obvious; but apparently, Simon Cowell-as-Laurie-Wiegler isn't sitting too well with innkeepers in Northern California right now (I imagine it wasn't a real publicist who sent the pitch, or she would have known better.) So here's what you need to know in order to keep the journos well fed and on your side: 1. Address us by name. This is so obvious that I can't believe I have to mention it. The above offender cut and pasted her pitch to me. I thought it was SPAM at first. 2. Get to the point in the first sentence or at least the first graf. 3. Stop at graf two. If you can't sell me in two grafs, I'm not interested. Remember, I am pouring through dozens of pitches like yours. I don't have time to read novels. 4. Please, please keep the links and cute images to a minimum

I'm not a religious person, but tonight I have one prayer and one prayer only: "Please God, please save me from the 26-year-old editors." It's not that I'm jealous of their toned penmanship and taut critiques, their uber-slim fonts and invisibly small mobile phones ...It's something bigger. These 26-year-olds are taking over the publishing industry. Everyone who is not Arianna Huffington -- wait, does Arianna have one n or two? Ah, who cares -- or Anna Wintour is under 30. Because they are under 30 and were raised on laptops and notebooks and iPods and now iPads and Blackberries, these brats think they know everything. Last week, the problem was an idiot copyeditor at YeHaw (not the real name, but use your imagination) who changed everything I wrote in a stupid format-style piece of content I never should have stooped to write, and then when they edited my bio they spelled the word "writings" as "writngs." That's right - no second "

Neil Calman MD: In Memory of Steven B. Tamarin MD - a Great Physician and a Great Friend

It's getting trickier these days. Try as I might, I've slipped a bit from those days when I sent a $10 Starbucks gift card back to a source. And might I add, I only did this after my boss admonished my hastily accepting it with a whiny, "but I looove lattes..." I've accepted free nights at hotels, buckets of pralines/gift cards/barbeque chips, free flights, dinners, wine, champagne, flattery, you name it. Am I coming clean? That said, I'd also like to mention that everyone who's bought me things is still under the same watchful eye as those who've bought me nothing (and ps, if this is you it's not too soon to prepare for my August birthday. I am a size 12.) The problem is that the line between journalist and source is becoming hazier. In the social networking age we are "friends," aren't we? And if we aren't, why in the heck haven't you accepted my Friend Request, Mr. Source? I know I am often troubled as to why I haven't

I've found I need to go on vacation in order to unwind. It's impossible to do it around the house, where I am chained to this laptop - like it or not. I can't stand to see a headline on the crawl above this page -- there's one now! -- without wanting to pounce on it. And it did not used to be like this. Twenty-five years ago when I entered the field, we didn't have computers; we had typewriters. Charming, antiquated, loud, clunky, wonderful typewriters. We purists pounded out our thoughts on a manual. I got through college that way. White-out (Liquid Paper) was our friend. When we were done writing articles, we had better things to do - like date, visit with friends and go for walks in the woods. Nowadays, though, no self-respecting journalist is caught dead spending more than an hour away from her e-mail. I find that I can miss jobs, stories, gossip, you name it if I so much as take a long shower. That's why I'm so sick at my stomach that I'm ready to l

Anderson Cooper was "roughed up by thugs" this week - as he posted on Twitter - and many now wonder if this is the new normal for journos. By new normal I mean, any self-respecting scribe will earn his stripes traveling halfway across the world and not flinch if sent into rock-throwing range of a crazed Muslim brother or frantic eighty-year-old democracy-hungry doctor. Maybe I'm a wimp, but I'll take my journalism work the way I would take any job: without putting my life in danger. I didn't become a cop or firewoman or President of the United States. I am a journalist. I am not required to put my life on the line in order to get to the story. To see CNN and the New York Times and Fox News and whomever else jockeying for stories and standing space on the square over there in Cairo...well, it's just a little unsettling. More than a little. There have always been war correspondents. And war photographers. These are noble professions -- but they stand apart from