Newspapering is an abusive relationship

I’ve often said that the newspaper business is an abusive relationship.

We love it. We defend it. We live for it.

But it beats us down. It treats us badly. It slowly kills us.

Yet, every day, we go back in.

I once had a journalism professor, Larry Lain, say that it’s the newsprint itself. The ink that ends up staining your fingers seeps into your bloodstream.

In truth, he tried to get away from the industry. He started out at a small Midwestern newspaper, but grew tired of the crazy schedule. He became a high school English teacher.

The principal made him adviser of the student newspaper.

Then he decided to get his master’s and his doctorate in communication. 

After becoming a professor at the University of Dayton, he was made adviser of the student newspaper.

“You can’t get away,” he told us the day the 2000-2001 Flyer News staff gathered for the first time.

Little did I realize, as I took on the mantle of editor in chief that year, he was right.

I’ve tried to leave it. I’ve applied for jobs outside of the industry.

But then I get assigned a story that sends me hunting down experts and documents. Or the emergency dispatcher comes across the scanner calling out a three-alarm structure fire. Or, as of late, I’m told to design the cover of the newspaper, with popping graphics, splashy photos and prosaic prose.

That’s why I disagree with Dr. Lain about the ink being what gets in you.

I think it’s the instant gratification.

I pour my soul into a piece of work, then I have to wait less than 24 hours to see the results. And not only do I see the results, but tens of thousands of others across the area get to see it, too.

I love it.

My work day starts when the sun is setting and isn’t over until there’s an hour or less till last call. My schedule changes weekly, depending on who else on the copy desk has vacation, or if there’s an election or major catastrophe that requires all hands to be on deck.

The pay... well, it’s better than it was when I was a reporter, but it certainly doesn’t match my friends who are engineers and actuaries and college professors. I’m certainly the poorest of my college friends, financially.

But I love this job and I keep hoping it will love me back.

There are a few flickers.

The boss says, “Good job with that story.” A source sends you a thank you note. The publishers provide free food.

And I’ll be back at the desk tomorrow, ready to take on the next assignment.