We devour news in an attempt to weave contradicting stories into a holistic account of the world, spurred on by some barely recognized desire to understand. Savvy journalists are aware of the enormous power they wield as creators of news stories and manipulators of news agendas. One hack’s hurried decision to omit a quote, to include a tidbit of information can profoundly affect the outlook of an entire populace. One reporter’s tireless coverage of a conflict and its casualties can mean a heart bursting with joy at news of a loved one, or one crumbling with misery at news of a death.
Great correspondents do not consider journalism a career. A career brings with it connotations of promotions, job ladders, vacations and weekends. Those reporters who break stories that bring tears to your eyes and raise hairs on your arms do not punch in their clock-in card at five o’clock. They live, breathe, bleed and die because they need the world to know.
Many of the most eloquent thinkers began their analysis of the world as journalists. Sociologist Daniel Bell, formerly a member of the press, crystallized the notion of post-industrial society in 1973 and sparked a debate still raging wildly in sociological circles over twenty years later. Who else but a journalist would state in a sociological tome “the freedom to pursue truth against those who would restrict it… is the alpha and omega of knowledge”?
But I find Western media currently lacking in great journalism. Redundancies and mergers smother dissenting voices under a blanket of uniformity. The great stalwarts of British journalism, John Simpson, John Pilger, Robert Fisk, are not being chased by up-and-coming pups eager to communicate injustice to the world at large.
My peers at university work at NME, giddily proclaiming to have found the band of the year every month, or regurgitate press releases for regional newspapers. Reading Piers Morgan’s diaries, a university assignment, made me physically ill. I cannot revel in another’s pain, use it as a front page splash, and then barely glance at it as it is wrapped around my chips the next day. Analysing Herman and Chomsky’s news filters for a first year essay made me feel like a deep-ocean fish brought up from the depths, destined to explode without atmospheres of pressure bearing down on me making me normal.
Perhaps this means I am not cut out for journalism. I disagree. I cannot be a mere reporter, sit and watch the wires under the strict instructions that ‘if it bleeds, it leads’, write travel pieces from travel agent brochures and hotel menus, write puff pieces for our biggest advertisers. I cannot be a part of mainstream media which reproduces, reinforces and ratifies news frames which reduce us all to one-dimensional paper-dolls. I cannot decide the hero, the villain and the victim. I have not watched enough Westerns to duplicate John Wayne’s swagger throughout my copy, assigning black hats and white hats.
So why slog through four years of training as a journalist?
Because journalists can change the world. While many scoff at idealism, without idealism nothing would be achieved. I have adapted my course to suit my own thirst for knowledge, to develop myself in the way I feel best. ‘Create your own question’ essays have allowed me to further investigate the detrimental effects of television, not just on provision of news, but on the brain itself. Sociology modules have advanced my questioning of society, its structures and mores. Lectures elucidating the concept of the information society found me leaving the classroom in a daze, head buzzing, contemplating ideas, mulling over theories, making connections.
My initial crushing disappointment at being unable to gain a placement at a newspaper turned into an invaluable opportunity to view journalism from the outside by working for a PR company, observing the measures others use to manipulate news. Ringing journalists to tempt them with photo-calls and press releases made me realise the extent to which those with commercial concerns will attempt to subsidise the media to advance their own message. My inability to secure newspaper interest in my stories of social injustice led me to join my student newspaper, rising through the ranks to become one of three editors-in-chief by way of a unique, semi-non-hierarchical organizational structure with an emphasis on horizontal rather than vertical decision-making. Sprinting through the crowd at a protest with a video camera in one hand and a tripod in the other revealed the authority cameras confer, the throng parting like the proverbial Red Sea and MSPs jostling to recite rhetoric. My shorthand skills mean my flatmate and I can leave cryptic messages for each other advising that we have run out of milk.
On a less romantic level, I have had the opportunity to nourish more practical abilities. Subediting the Napier student newspaper, Veritas, taking production classes and creating a student magazine means I am competent in Quark and InDesign and can ruthlessly slash a story from 1,400 words to 400 without loss of meaning. My editorial role at Veritas has sharpened my eye for a story and honed my news values, albeit standards of my own creation. Online journalism classes have opened up the world of blogging to one who believes passionately in the D.I.Y. ethic. Basic journalism classes have improved my writing and filming skills, with an emphasis on accuracy, clarity and conciseness.
But where does this leave me? I am no longer a starry-eyed kid wanting to be a music journalist and finishing every story with a half-baked sign-off. My studies have wrenched my eyes open. I do not know where I fit in the media world, but I know I want to be at the forefront. I want the local drunk’s beer spittle spraying my face, the bullet grazes from war zones, the bone-tired feeling of being up for days reading through documents for that one damning phrase. The black ink of newsprint can smear my fingertips when I’m too old to walk.
[...] so what’s the point? [...]