Sitting in Schat’s Bakery in downtown Ukiah, northern California. Visible through the window behind me is the Mendocino County Courthouse, an unimaginatively designed building constructed of concrete and plaster — solid materials for its solid function. Out of sight around the corner, my little Toyota sits, a half-inch of snow looking out of place on its California-reared body.
Waiting for the other members of my writing group (we call ourselves The Vaguerants: vaguely ranting peripatetic scribes) to arrive, this past couple of hours, I’ve been applying via email for bottom of the typewriter newspaper reporter jobs. I’d stuffed a stack of them, printed out from JournalismJobs.com, into my backpack as I hurriedly gathered toothbrush and computer around two o’clock this afternoon — wanting to put the hour’s drive behind me before slushy roads became icy. Spending my life by the beach hasn’t prepared me too well for the other end of the climatic arc.
Scanning the job listings and deciding whether and how to apply becomes a rote process. "Knowledge of AP Style" — no but I can fake it; "Bachelor’s degree required" — have that, although German Language & Literature is not quite the same as Communications; "some writing experience" — yep, that I do have, although not much recently, unless you count a scattered trail of partially revised short stories; "photo skills" — yes! That I have unequivocally; "knowledge of Quark Express" — nope, never heard of it, but I learn fast; etc. etc.
Despite the fat green binder of Healdsburg Tribune articles with my name on the byline, I match up poorly on paper with many of the requirements, so how to convey my strengths? Obsessive accuracy with grammar, punctuation, syntax and spelling; fabulous vocabulary and scintillating deployment of verbs. (And I know the rules well enough to know when and how I can get away with bending them.) I can create a story from the driest facts that will capture — even captivate — the reader, that will cause "artsy" people to want to read a high school baseball report and jocks to read about a shoe repairman. Presented with a task for which I’ve not been trained, pride and utter determination propel me: not only will I not fail, I will do it well enough to earn me praise.
Kansas, Missouri, North Carolina — my emails disappear into the ether, bound for the in-boxes of editors across the nation.
