How Writers Snuck "I" Into Their Work

Roy Reed, a former teacher of mine.

My education is rooted in old school journalism. Many of my first college professors and peers were old newspapermen and women, the kind who covered beats and lived in foreign places and detested false titles (ie: philanthropist Bill Gates vs. Bill Gates, philanthropist). One of the rules that was hammered into me as a young journalism student was never to insert myself into a story. EVER. But times have changed, and the practice no longer seems to apply, even in hard news. I think my teachers would cringe at how commonplace it is for writers to refer to themselves in first person in news stories, particularly in publications such as the New York Times, where at least one of my mentors spent the better part of his reporting career (see pic R). But journalism today emphasizes self-importance, at least in the legacy publications and emerging online "markets" for news.

The POV (point of view) in fiction has veered in this direction, too. Not that there aren't great classic books in first person (Catcher in the Rye), but chances are good when you browse through a bookstore and pick up a new novel, it will be told in first person. Makes a writer go hmmm. There's a critique group in Portland, a highly revered one, whose founder prefers first-person POV at the table, almost to the exclusion of any other telling.

As for the trend in news, I think technology changed the intimacy gradient between writer and reader. I'm not fibbing when I tell you that my first college writing lab in journalism was taken on manual typewriters. The very next year, we had Macs. (Oh, how I wish I had one of those cute little boxy buggars.) Later, as a graduate student, I distinctly remember walking by the Reading Room (our J-dept still had one, with newspapers from around the state) and hearing a member of the graduate faculty twittering on about a fabulous new invention called America Online. Little did I know her twittering would catch on much later.

Brenda Blagg, a former mentor and colleague.

Today's journalists have to write for a web audience (and some static readers), and that's where I think the change has evolved. The web makes it easier for a reader to have a conversation, or argument, with the writer. Who can claim that a journalist recounts a story 100% objectively? Not possible. Fair, accurate, truthful, yes, but objective, never. No writer has a clean bias slate. Every nuance of the writer's upbringing, education, social standing, race, etc., is always in the background. Word usage and framing a story go through the filter. This doesn't make the news worthless; but it does make it human and fallible. Good readers know this and still see the importance of striving for objectivity. The difference in the last 15 years is that readers can call a writer out immediately and very publicly. And, unfortunately, viciously and anonymously.

Blogging is also a first-person show. Hey, it's all about me here, right? Do I appear genuine while I frown over a lost principle about objectivity? I'm inserting my views and mundane updates for whomever will take the bait. (PS-Why are you here?) Granted, my blog isn't a news website. Far from it. I'm sharing my journey as a writer and trying to make a deeper connection with readers. I also like to write. Part of me wants to share. I make my thoughts available with my name firmly affixed.

(Bonus question: How many times did I use the word I in this post, not including this sentence? The first to comment with the correct answer will receive a free www.HeartinOregon.com bumper sticker!)

(Books in the pictures are Beware of Limbo Dancers: A Correspondent's Adventures with the New York Times by Roy Reed and Political Magic: The Travels, Trials and Triumphs of the Clintons' Arkansas Travelers by Brenda Blagg. No compensation or free copies of these books were provided as an inducement for their promotion or sale on this blog.)

The Tyranny of Choice

Paper or plastic or canvas or compostable microfiber
Yogurt in tubs or gallons or swirls or sold w/crumbles
Bread made of wheat, white, potato, oatmeal or seeds
Shoes named Vans or Sketchers or superstars, no laces
Cars called third countries or creatures, probably extinct
Nail polish in neon, like movies or hair dyes or novels

(God bless the writers)

Wash the merch down with microbrewed pilsner
or wine mixed with chocolate
or mixologist whiskey
or java-soaked ale

I want simple
Sunlight
Dawn
Awe
Laughter
True love
I want complex

or a wonder-led life
or a people unsuffering
or sleepless nights of creation
Wash the intangibles down with the salts of humility

(God bless the writers)

Words in good books or a poem that squeezes or an urge to do same
Thoughts that demand pens or bliss to be spoken or kiss to be taken
Emotions that trim wrinkles or replace burnt bridges or run off in song
Longings of the ages, pondered or buried, the answers no closer
Humor or stories or old pictures or yellow letters w/memories, forgotten
Kindreds who challenge or listen or forgive the missteps, the many

----
For drafts, click here.

The Internal Debate

My ongoing internal debate about the merits of writing fiction goes something like this:

Me: "God. This is great! I love this creative writing life. I can make up whatever I want, and no one has much of a say so, and did I mention, this is great. Whoopie!"

Mt. Washington in Central OR

My conscience, (The Big C, henceforth): "Hey, you there. Are you kidding me? No f**king around here. Get on to something more productive. You're at the height of your income-earning years. There's no way you are going to make money writing crazy stories about things you make up. Get a life (translate: job), girlie."

Me: "But not everything can be boiled down to monetary gain. This writing thing, it's life generating. I think I'm on to something here."

The Big C: "You think you're the only dreamer? Ha! Just go trolling around Amazon and you'll see how many people are generating life! A whole pack of crazies. Put that pencil down and go make some money."

Me: "You're harsh. Are you sure you know the meaning of life?"

The Big C: "You like bread? You like butter? How about that house you live in? I saw you eating shrimp last night."

Me: "Here. (I show a paper to The Big C) Here's a story I can sell. It's about a gator-hunting bootmaker. Here's another. This guy writes cowboy poetry. You know, they all use their creativity for something greater than a roof over their heads -- they create to live. Now, leave me alone. I need to dream."

The Big C goes quiet. For a while. I feed it some more paid articles. She shakes her head.