Writer’s block leads to reporting memories

Authors of various sizes (that is, lengths of writing efforts) often are told that they should type stories about what they know best. That is easier said than getting done, as it’s similar to waiting for a Thanksgiving turkey to be roasted enough to gobble.

Actually, some writers periodically experience writer’s block. In my case I have been feeling like a blockhead because the keyboard frightens me. So I’ve been unable to make myself type because of many reasons, some of them questionable.

It is much easier working as a reporter because you’re given assignments. You go, you cover the event, you write a story. Easy, right? But when one wants to write for “fun” the procedure is amazingly different. Is it a good topic? Should you really be doing this? Will anyone find it interesting? Will part of your brain fall out?

Thus, it has been easy, but queasy, for many weeks to ignore the desire to write. After all, I am forced to admit that after more than 60 years of using the brain-to-fingers “muscle memory” on the alphabet ... uh ... Oh dear, a profound thought was percolating, but it fizzled. Before long, while staring at a blank screen, a writer can begin to ramble on the keys, hoping that a readable effort will somehow occur.

If anyone is still reading this, I’d like to share a few memories of being a cub reporter for a great metropolitan newspaper (not the Daily Planet). There could be a lesson or two or least a bit of chewing gum for the brain.

Claude, who covered the county civic center, tolerated my two-week presence without offering any advice. In fact, if I entered the Teletype room while he was working, he’d lean forward and raise his arms over the keyboard. Apparently, he thought that I’d steal his stories. Weird. So I learned to get my own stories without checking with him. Good learning curve.

The two weeks with the court reporter were similar, but different. “Rip” did not care for cub reporters and told me in strong terms when I arrived to “Leave me the hell alone and don’t try to follow me.” OK. I was able to learn by watching reporters from other papers and attending various trials. He did stop me from smoking cigarettes, though, by threatening to throw me out of the courthouse.

The police reporter, Flint, was quite good. He taught me the slight but major differences between various words and using proper tenses. He made me memorize the police radio codes and how to deal with beat officers, traffic cops and detectives. I enjoyed my time with him, and he encouraged me to follow my idea for a story by spending a shift with an accident investigation officer. Nice.

My stint with the city hall reporter was another real experience. He actually strained my brain by having me cover stories that he had planned but never got around to. Then he had me read them aloud to check style and accuracy. And he was good at allowing me to follow my ideas for feature stories; then he had me read them aloud to him and the city public relations representative. All good stuff.

My favorite two-week training session was riding with staff photographers. They were fun and demonstrated the art of proper camera handling to get the best angle and best shot. I also learned how to deal with photo subjects without causing a problem. Other parts of my training were sitting with the telegraph editor to get an idea of how stories are processed and which were the most important. Finally, I sat on the rim with the longtime headline writers, which was extremely eye-opening. There is a real skill to be able to capture the essence of a story in a few words.

Yeah, too bad about the length of what I just wrote, but life’s like that. All right: My confidence block might be diminished. Hope so.