“I was cleaning out the bunny cage,” said my friend Kathy,
as I wondered fleetingly why she was telling me a story about animal
sanitation, “when I looked down and saw an article you’d written about
sightseeing in Concord.”
Covered with rabbit poop, apparently, but still, my byline
shimmered through. Hmmm. In the 21st century, journalists are happy
to be read at all, and I’m no exception. If that’s what it takes, it’s still
good enough for me.
Every journalist fantasizes about readers who scan the pages
looking only for that one byline, eager to read any word you write, on any
topic, but I find more often these days that people are reading me by accident,
as Kathy did while freshening up her pet rabbit’s dwelling. Actually, I’m
impressed that she gets a print copy of the newspaper at all, with all the
virtual options now available. My household subscribes to the iPad version of
the paper; when an article of mine gets published, I have to ask my parents to
save the clipping for me so that I can add it to my portfolio. Occasionally when my daughter wants to do an art project, she’ll ask me for newspaper to
protect her work surface, and I’ll have to admit we don’t have any newspapers
in the house anymore, so she ends up papering the kitchen table with supermarket
circulars and real estate brochures instead.
Stories are getting shorter, too. The quarterly alumni
magazine for which I write used to allot me 1,200 words per profile, or one
full two-page spread. A few years ago they cut the profiles from two pages back
to one page, or 600 words. For the most recent issue, my editor said she
thought 450 to 500 words would be ideal. “Do you want me to just do a detailed
photo caption?” I asked her, half-joking.
Still, I find it just as satisfying to know my work has been
read now as I did with my very first byline in our local newspaper when I was a
college student trying to accrue clips for a job-hunting portfolio. Earlier
this month, I wrote a story for the Globe about a Concord family taking part in
a trans-Iowa bike ride. The day it was published, I received emails from two
different newspaper editors at small-town papers in Iowa, asking if they could
run my story. Of course, I told them. I’d already gone to the trouble of
writing it; why not savor the fact that more eyes would rest upon my words, at
least for a moment or two while they scanned the lead paragraph?
Other writers are more opinionated than I am about the issue
of proprietary work and intellectual copyright in the Internet era. I know my work
has been printed without my knowledge at times; if I Google my name, I find
references to essays I wrote for local publications popping up in special
interest magazines and newsletters from Alabama to Albania. But it’s okay. We
write to be read, just as we speak to be heard. Whether it’s Albania or the
bunny cage, I’m happy to be in print.
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