See? I can make it back for day two. That's a start...assuming the insane amount of vacuuming that needs to get done today doesn't stretch out into the rest of the week.
Another story today; this one's a tribute to the insane journalist and writer Hunter S. Thompson. Inspired by the 'Hemingway Defense' presented in 'On Writing' as the great writer's excuse to continue his rampant alcoholism (in short: I'm a man. I'm a writer, therefore I'm sensitive. But real men aren't sensitive. Therefore, whisky.)
Without further ado:
Another story today; this one's a tribute to the insane journalist and writer Hunter S. Thompson. Inspired by the 'Hemingway Defense' presented in 'On Writing' as the great writer's excuse to continue his rampant alcoholism (in short: I'm a man. I'm a writer, therefore I'm sensitive. But real men aren't sensitive. Therefore, whisky.)
Without further ado:
THE THOMPSON DEFENSE
“New copy?”
“New story.”
The typewriters kept up the machine gun chatter. The radio filled in the spaces between salvoes; cloying static and cloying words dirtied by the very mouths that spoke them, or screamed them, or muttered them under their lips as the deadline creeps nearer.
I hated the paper.
But I managed to end up bleeding for it. I snatched up phone calls at three in the morning; unshaven, half-dressed, still pounding away. I spoke in the copy-editor’s slang. Short and sharp. No hyphens. The Chicago Manual as my holy writ.
“Tell the editorial staff I want a meeting in ten.”
Cigarettes added to the fog of war, streaking every face and every hotshot reporter, every managing editor cracking their whips and baying like dogs to the masses for more. More copy, more stories, more space. More lines. More ink.
I snatched up the typewritten sheets, forgot the copy boy who’d slid them over my desk.
It was dated March 14th. Two days old. The press was a juggernaut, relentless and unforgiving. Hung up on the logistical balance between truth and paycheques. A true balance had yet to be found.
One sweep of my eyes was enough. I’d forgotten the gist of it before I’d finished. The iron discipline of the paper would have been broken across the lede line alone:
“The journalist is supposed to be a martyr for the unspoiled virgin called truth. But in this country, in this paper, the truth does not pay. Advertising does.”
There was a sign-off at the bottom. Assignment, date of assignment, reporter.
In other words: ‘The future of newsmen, March 14th, Jameson.’
All my business could wait. I crumpled up the copy, slapped it down, rose from my desk.
His desk was at the centre of the newsroom, where the high shuttered windows blasted him at lunch hour. He was sitting back, half-asleep, his shirt rolled up, but no ink on his hands, no calluses on his fingers. No ripped and torn pages, no drive to his work. That never existed. Not anytime I watched.
“You’re not a fan of my language.”
I hadn’t caught his eye, hadn’t ploughed through the flocks of secretaries to lean on his desk and breathe down his neck. The accusation couldn’t be refuted, though.
“That’s the third time this month. You’re out this time. I told you to read the style guides the last time you fucked up. I’m a fairer man than any other editor you worked for. It’s over-“
“It’s true.”