To be or not to...zzzzzzz
Nothing happened. No arrests. No retaliation. No nothing. Silence greets everything.
People wonder why I don't needle about feminist language or care about transsexuals having their own words. It's because that doesn't feel real. It's all preaching to the choir. Feeling a rapist's body above you, that's real. Hearing some girl next door being slammed against the wall. That's real. The endless stream of police reports I sift through matter more to me than some hypothetical exclusion. Proper feminists say it's all one root. Jenny says you gotta take it one step at a time or risk diffusing the movement into ivory-tower irrelevency.
Tired. So tired. Wrote so much. Pissed. Boss gave me an assignment at 4:55 p.m. Friday. I took the photos and interviewed guy Monday. Ended up writing the story in about an hour this morning under tremendous pressure. The interview was pretty meandering and I had no clue what I was going to focus on. I walk in the door and Ethan says "Oh we need this as soon as possible because it's going to these three other newspapers" and I was like...what Now everyone in the frickin' office is going on about how wonderful the piece is (I didn't get a chance to edit out my normal quirks, which I feel are not journalistic but which do add a certain--well, Jennyness). Which is all well and good, but will probably mean my boss will start handing stuff out under shorter and shorter time pressures because, after all, Jennifer can handle it.
Blast. Sometimes I outsmart myself. I work hard to get ahead and I just have to end up working harder.
Oh well, this week, the front page is all about me. I am three stories, boxing in the main art. One of them will probably go on the website in the next couple of days.
People wonder why I don't needle about feminist language or care about transsexuals having their own words. It's because that doesn't feel real. It's all preaching to the choir. Feeling a rapist's body above you, that's real. Hearing some girl next door being slammed against the wall. That's real. The endless stream of police reports I sift through matter more to me than some hypothetical exclusion. Proper feminists say it's all one root. Jenny says you gotta take it one step at a time or risk diffusing the movement into ivory-tower irrelevency.
Tired. So tired. Wrote so much. Pissed. Boss gave me an assignment at 4:55 p.m. Friday. I took the photos and interviewed guy Monday. Ended up writing the story in about an hour this morning under tremendous pressure. The interview was pretty meandering and I had no clue what I was going to focus on. I walk in the door and Ethan says "Oh we need this as soon as possible because it's going to these three other newspapers" and I was like...what Now everyone in the frickin' office is going on about how wonderful the piece is (I didn't get a chance to edit out my normal quirks, which I feel are not journalistic but which do add a certain--well, Jennyness). Which is all well and good, but will probably mean my boss will start handing stuff out under shorter and shorter time pressures because, after all, Jennifer can handle it.
Blast. Sometimes I outsmart myself. I work hard to get ahead and I just have to end up working harder.
Oh well, this week, the front page is all about me. I am three stories, boxing in the main art. One of them will probably go on the website in the next couple of days.