Got back from Poynter in Seattle Center. It's nice to be paid to park there, but I wish the weather had been a little nicer — and I'd remembered to wear a jacket. I stayed at Beth and Chris' and Beth gave me a lap blanket thing she'd woven for my belated b-day and I wore it the second day. It's brown, orange and red and yellow. It's really cute, but it's also way homemade. Basically, I blended in with all the other sartorially-challenged freelancers and small-town middle aged journos.
It's amazing how tacky journos can be. Honestly, Clinton and Stacey could spend a lifetime rehabbing us. I'm including myself because maybe I am needing to take a step back in front of a full length mirror before I get more specific in the complaints I would normally lodge against my colleagues (well, let me say there was a chick in big silver shoes with rave pants that had been bell-bottomed with pink zebra stripe material, more than a few crocheted oversweaters and some seriously high-waisted pants). At least I was warm. It was cold in those rooms.
The presenters were eh. I have no idea what anyone could tell me that I would be like, "dude, you blew my mind!" Maybe there are things that would come naturally out of discussion in grad school (erp) but these 1 1/2 hour things aren't always that illuminating. On the other hand, maybe I'd have to go through entire semesters about the "telling detail."
This wasn't the National Writers Workshop's finest conference; on the other hand, I learned that the LA Times has a position called a "parachuter." There are two of them. One is the straight reporter, the other is the color reporter. They are dispatched within 45 minutes of any crisis anywhere. I want to be the color parachutist. Also that there are positions in papers where people work on projects for a couple of months and that's also pretty appealing. How do I get on track to do that? I feel so completely estranged from that world of competant, professional, expansive journalism. It doesn't help that the people that tend to go to these conferences appear to have been sent there as a consolation prize for working in the scullery of journalism — it's all teensy small-town papers, students and freelancer types with no ambition. Is this who I am? I could seriously stab myself thinking I am one of that unmotivated, crappy-question-asking crowd. And I'm including a certain Seattle Times columnist who asked some stupid questions that presumed newspaper narratives cannot use tension or suspense. Great assumption.
It's amazing how simultaneously open and closed some people are to wing stretching advice. Or else they just want to hear the same thing over and over again and feel threatened if it isn't about the "telling detail."
On the other hand, Erik Larson's presentation about the telling detail, the only one to mention it in the title yet not the only one that used it as an advice crutch, was pretty entertaining. If you haven't read "Devil in the White City," I recommend it. The fin de siecle serial killer story (non-fic!) never gets old. It was, I think, good for me to see someone who gets so obsessed with his work. I can't imagine falling in love with an event, as he did with the first World's Fair, though I can imagine hanging out in reference libraries.
Also, I think I like Don Fry. He seems like a sensible Joe. His advice is pretty basic, but it was well-rehearsed and he has a good attitude. I'd like to get the advanced level advice session from him some time.
Also tried a new pizza place, Stellar, in the industrial area near B&C's house. Very good pizza. Nice beer. Crazy awesome atmosphere. Retro fifties via the eighties with the pomo twist. We (B&C and I) talked about writing and how Beth has a life that I'm going to mine for details. Actually, her dad's life. It's all this kookiness that you just can't make up. His most revent wedding, for one, was some sort of spirit dance cum Renaissance Faire gone horribly, horribly awry. Currently, his wife is going to buy a Kiwanis hall that is the site of monthly "Cuddle Parties." If you Google this, you will giggle and want to barf simultaneously. Which may be why there was a sign posted on the wall especially for the cuddle party that read "no joking" when Beth's stepmother went to look at the hall and it was set up for the anonymous "safe" touching event that was to follow. My skin just crawled.
And I thought Hannidate was creepy.
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