Why I’m a Human Reporter (It Has Nothing to do With My Human-Shaped Heart)
As an award-winning reporter for The New York Times, I’m constantly being asked if I’ve ever had to kill another reporter and steal his story in order to make a deadline.
Officially, on the record, my answer is always “no.” But, of course, I think we all know that that’s a lie. Of course I’ve had to kill other reporters to get a story. No human reporter can make every single deadline they have without resorting to the cold-blooded murder of another reporter. It’s just the way journalism works.
I know that people like to pretend that journalists are all above that, that we’re all some kind of God-like perfect beings who never steal, cheat, rape, pillage, or murder. We’re not. We’re regular, murdering humans, just like the rest of you. Pretending that we’re not is only going to drive an even bigger wedge into the widening reporter/citizen gap.
No, we’re human. I’d say that during the five years I’ve been a journalist, I’ve had to take out somewhere in the neighborhood of 25 other journalists in order to get a story. It’s not a perfect game. Every once in a while you’ll find out that their line of “I’ve got nothing” really was the truth, and not an attempt to trick you into thinking that they weren’t sitting on a juicy, hard-hitting story that was ripe for the taking. Sure, it usually was a lie, but every now and then I had to kill a reporter who really didn’t have a story I could use as my own.
Boy, was that embarrassing.
Now I’m not about to go into a long list of who I’ve killed, and which of the stories I’ve filed over the years were really written by someone else. My editors probably have a clue based on the amount of blood that was on the story when I submitted it, but they’re professionals. They’re used to that, and editor/journalist confidentiality protects me from being turned into the police.
Not that they’d want to do that. Lose a good reporter over some minor infraction? I’d be in jail for 15-30 days, unable to meet any deadlines. In jail there are almost no reporters around that you can kill for their stories. And those who are there aren’t the ones that you want to mess with.
You really want to mess with the soft targets. The easy kills. The reporters who aren’t expecting it and who don’t have their guard up. Usually the French. Or the Canadians. The French Canadians, wow, what a goldmine of stories. It’s like taking candy from a young person. Unfortunately, their stories are all in French also, so it’s kind of a waste of time, but it sure is fun.
Sorry, I’m rambling. I know you expect more brilliance and less rambling nonsense from someone as amazing at reportage as me. My disappointment to you is a disappointment to me as well, and I might just have to murder myself to make up for it.
I’ll open the floor to votes. Kill myself, yes or no? Please answer in the form of an essay, explaining your work, not just a simple “yes” or “no.” If your answer can be at least 1,000 words, then I might be able to find alternate uses for your responses in the pages of the fabled New York Times.
I’m not saying in advance that I’m going to steal any comments you leave and pass them off as my own original journalism, but that’s just what I’m going to do. Ha! And there’s nothing you can do to stop me, either.
Was that too gloaty? Well… I’ll try to tone it down for the sequel. In the meantime, just write me lots of good articles and I’ll retire to the Bahamas. See, everyone wins!