The Beauty of Journalism

As I walked up the concrete steps to the front doors of the Yuba College Theatre, a borrowed camera at my side, I was ready to begin coverage of the Yuba College Variety Show. I felt an overwhelming sense of nervous energy within myself; I didn’t know how I was going to cover this particular piece. I didn’t know how one would cover such a piece. Should I talk about the entire show in general? Should I follow one performer? Should I cover the history of the show? Or should I cover only the competition aspect of the show? The beauty of journalism is being thrust into the realm of a possibly uncomfortable, always human moment, and waiting for a light to shine. It can be as big as uncovering a huge political scandal, or showing the wild life of an artist, and it can be as small as finding a way to finish an assignment. It’s about doing the big work, voicing your freedom, and exposing the world at large, but it is also about giving attention to people who deserve it. 

With all this in mind, I extended my hand, grabbed the handle of the door and pulled. My arm was met with a jolt of immobility. “Damn!” I thought as I tried the next door. Locked again. I walked to the bottom of the steps to the nearest door, both doors are locked again.

As my hope is fading, I walk the big circle to the other side of the theatre. Again, first door locked. My hope is lost as I reach for the next door wondering why I am even wasting my time. I grab the last door and pull. An open door. I let out a sigh of relief and I am in the building. I walk toward the door on the inside and, half expecting it to be locked, I pull. Again, I get to release some of my tension when I open the last door.

The room is dim. All of the participants are on the other side of feelings, but some people should pursue success from without the world of art.

The next act goes on, and the next, and the next. I begin to sink lower and lower into my seat as each act chugs through. I keep taking pictures though, so as not to show my discontent with any one performer. No one has a sense of stage presence. There are a few glimmers of unshaped skill, but nothing yet that I deem good enough for a story about talent. Then the girl with an appreciation of many photographs steps onstage. She gives her CD to the man in control of the music, tells him the number, and steps back to middle stage. The song begins. Her face shifts slightly, an eyebrow raised. She walks backstage for a second.

“Oh great,” I think, “another one who isn’t ready.”

She walks back to center stage and her song begins. The first phrase cuts through the cloud above my head, and my shoulders relax. She smiles for the crowd. I take a picture. She is my story. She has a beautiful voice, incredible stage presence, and she is very easy on the eyes.

The tryouts end and I approach her to ask her permission to cover her in my story. She speaks with such confidence it makes me even more nervous. I’m not prepared, I don’t have questions, I just found out what I want to do with my article, and she is all too ready to answer the questions I don’t have. Her name is Alexandria Mazerolle, she is 20, and she is quite a talented singer. She has been on American Idol once and tried out another time. It is an awkward conversation on my part. These are the only questions I could mutter. I talk as if I am a lifetime fan, and I feel the same way.

The beauty of journalism is being thrust into the realm of a possibly uncomfortable, always human moment, and waiting for a light to shine. It can be as big as uncovering a huge political scandal, or showing the wild life of an artist, and it can be as small as finding a way to finish an assignment. It’s about doing the big work, voicing your freedom, and exposing the world at large, but it is also about giving attention to people who deserve it.

 

 

The beauty of journalism is being thrust into the realm of a possibly uncomfortable, always human moment, and waiting for a light to shine. It can be as big as uncovering a huge political scandal, or showing the wild life of an artist, and it can be as small as finding a way to finish an assignment. It’s about doing the big work, voicing your freedom, and exposing the world at large, but it is also about giving attention to people who deserve it.The tryouts end and I approach her to ask her permission to cover her in my story. She speaks with such confidence it makes me even more nervous. I’m not prepared, I don’t have questions, I just found out what I want to do with my article, and she is all too ready to answer the questions I don’t have. Her name is Alexandria Mazerolle, she is 20, and she is quite a talented singer. She has been on American Idol once and tried out another time. It is an awkward conversation on my part. These are the only questions I could mutter. I talk as if I am a lifetime fan, and I feel the same way. She walks back to center stage and her song begins. The first phrase cuts through the cloud above my head, and my shoulders relax. She smiles for the crowd. I take a picture. She is my story. She has a beautiful voice, incredible stage presence, and she is very easy on the eyes. “Oh great,” I think, “another one who isn’t ready.”The next act goes on, and the next, and the next. I begin to sink lower and lower into my seat as each act chugs through. I keep taking pictures though, so as not to show my discontent with any one performer. No one has a sense of stage presence. There are a few glimmers of unshaped skill, but nothing yet that I deem good enough for a story about talent. Then the girl with an appreciation of many photographs steps onstage. She gives her CD to the man in control of the music, tells him the number, and steps back to middle stage. The song begins. Her face shifts slightly, an eyebrow raised. She walks backstage for a second.The room is dim. All of the participants are on the other side of feelings, but some people should pursue success from without the world of art.As my hope is fading, I walk the big circle to the other side of the theatre. Again, first door locked. My hope is lost as I reach for the next door wondering why I am even wasting my time. I grab the last door and pull. An open door. I let out a sigh of relief and I am in the building. I walk toward the door on the inside and, half expecting it to be locked, I pull. Again, I get to release some of my tension when I open the last door.With all this in mind, I extended my hand, grabbed the handle of the door and pulled. My arm was met with a jolt of immobility. “Damn!” I thought as I tried the next door. Locked again. I walked to the bottom of the steps to the nearest door, both doors are locked again.As I walked up the concrete steps to the front doors of the Yuba College Theatre, a borrowed camera at my side, I was ready to begin coverage of the Yuba College Variety Show. I felt an overwhelming sense of nervous energy within myself; I didn’t know how I was going to cover this particular piece. I didn’t know how one would cover such a piece. Should I talk about the entire show in general? Should I follow one performer? Should I cover the history of the show? Or should I cover only the competition aspect of the show? As I walked up the concrete steps to the front doors of the Yuba College Theatre, a borrowed camera at my side, I was ready to begin coverage of the Yuba College Variety Show. I felt an overwhelming sense of nervous energy within myself; I didn’t know how I was going to cover this particular piece. I didn’t know how one would cover such a piece. Should I talk about the entire show in general? Should I follow one performer? Should I cover the history of the show? Or should I cover only the competition aspect of the show?

With all this in mind, I extended my hand, grabbed the handle of the door and pulled. My arm was met with a jolt of immobility. “Damn!” I thought as I tried the next door. Locked again. I walked to the bottom of the steps to the nearest door, both doors are locked again.

As my hope is fading, I walk the big circle to the other side of the theatre. Again, first door locked. My hope is lost as I reach for the next door wondering why I am even wasting my time. I grab the last door and pull. An open door. I let out a sigh of relief and I am in the building. I walk toward the door on the inside and, half expecting it to be locked, I pull. Again, I get to release some of my tension when I open the last door.

The room is dim. All of the participants are on the other side of feelings, but some people should pursue success from without the world of art.

The next act goes on, and the next, and the next. I begin to sink lower and lower into my seat as each act chugs through. I keep taking pictures though, so as not to show my discontent with any one performer. No one has a sense of stage presence. There are a few glimmers of unshaped skill, but nothing yet that I deem good enough for a story about talent. Then the girl with an appreciation of many photographs steps onstage. She gives her CD to the man in control of the music, tells him the number, and steps back to middle stage. The song begins. Her face shifts slightly, an eyebrow raised. She walks backstage for a second.

“Oh great,” I think, “another one who isn’t ready.”

She walks back to center stage and her song begins. The first phrase cuts through the cloud above my head, and my shoulders relax. She smiles for the crowd. I take a picture. She is my story. She has a beautiful voice, incredible stage presence, and she is very easy on the eyes.

The tryouts end and I approach her to ask her permission to cover her in my story. She speaks with such confidence it makes me even more nervous. I’m not prepared, I don’t have questions, I just found out what I want to do with my article, and she is all too ready to answer the questions I don’t have. Her name is Alexandria Mazerolle, she is 20, and she is quite a talented singer. She has been on American Idol once and tried out another time. It is an awkward conversation on my part. These are the only questions I could mutter. I talk as if I am a lifetime fan, and I feel the same way.

The beauty of journalism is being thrust into the realm of a possibly uncomfortable, always human moment, and waiting for a light to shine. It can be as big as uncovering a huge political scandal, or showing the wild life of an artist, and it can be as small as finding a way to finish an assignment. It’s about doing the big work, voicing your freedom, and exposing the world at large, but it is also about giving attention to people who deserve it. As I walked up the concrete steps to the front doors of the Yuba College Theatre, a borrowed camera at my side, I was ready to begin coverage of the Yuba College Variety Show. I felt an overwhelming sense of nervous energy within myself; I didn’t know how I was going to cover this particular piece. I didn’t know how one would cover such a piece. Should I talk about the entire show in general? Should I follow one performer? Should I cover the history of the show? Or should I cover only the competition aspect of the show?

With all this in mind, I extended my hand, grabbed the handle of the door and pulled. My arm was met with a jolt of immobility. “Damn!” I thought as I tried the next door. Locked again. I walked to the bottom of the steps to the nearest door, both doors are locked again.

As my hope is fading, I walk the big circle to the other side of the theatre. Again, first door locked. My hope is lost as I reach for the next door wondering why I am even wasting my time. I grab the last door and pull. An open door. I let out a sigh of relief and I am in the building. I walk toward the door on the inside and, half expecting it to be locked, I pull. Again, I get to release some of my tension when I open the last door.

The room is dim. All of the participants are on the other side of feelings, but some people should pursue success from without the world of art.

The next act goes on, and the next, and the next. I begin to sink lower and lower into my seat as each act chugs through. I keep taking pictures though, so as not to show my discontent with any one performer. No one has a sense of stage presence. There are a few glimmers of unshaped skill, but nothing yet that I deem good enough for a story about talent. Then the girl with an appreciation of many photographs steps onstage. She gives her CD to the man in control of the music, tells him the number, and steps back to middle stage. The song begins. Her face shifts slightly, an eyebrow raised. She walks backstage for a second.

“Oh great,” I think, “another one who isn’t ready.”

She walks back to center stage and her song begins. The first phrase cuts through the cloud above my head, and my shoulders relax. She smiles for the crowd. I take a picture. She is my story. She has a beautiful voice, incredible stage presence, and she is very easy on the eyes.

The tryouts end and I approach her to ask her permission to cover her in my story. She speaks with such confidence it makes me even more nervous. I’m not prepared, I don’t have questions, I just found out what I want to do with my article, and she is all too ready to answer the questions I don’t have. Her name is Alexandria Mazerolle, she is 20, and she is quite a talented singer. She has been on American Idol once and tried out another time. It is an awkward conversation on my part. These are the only questions I could mutter. I talk as if I am a lifetime fan, and I feel the same way.

The beauty of journalism is being thrust into the realm of a possibly uncomfortable, always human moment, and waiting for a light to shine. It can be as big as uncovering a huge political scandal, or showing the wild life of an artist, and it can be as small as finding a way to finish an assignment. It’s about doing the big work, voicing your freedom, and exposing the world at large, but it is also about giving attention to people who deserve it.As I walked up the concrete steps to the front doors of the Yuba College Theatre, a borrowed camera at my side, I was ready to begin coverage of the Yuba College Variety Show. I felt an overwhelming sense of nervous energy within myself; I didn’t know how I was going to cover this particular piece. I didn’t know how one would cover such a piece. Should I talk about the entire show in general? Should I follow one performer? Should I cover the history of the show? Or should I cover only the competition aspect of the show?

With all this in mind, I extended my hand, grabbed the handle of the door and pulled. My arm was met with a jolt of immobility. “Damn!” I thought as I tried the next door. Locked again. I walked to the bottom of the steps to the nearest door, both doors are locked again.

As my hope is fading, I walk the big circle to the other side of the theatre. Again, first door locked. My hope is lost as I reach for the next door wondering why I am even wasting my time. I grab the last door and pull. An open door. I let out a sigh of relief and I am in the building. I walk toward the door on the inside and, half expecting it to be locked, I pull. Again, I get to release some of my tension when I open the last door.

The room is dim. All of the participants are on the other side of feelings, but some people should pursue success from without the world of art.

The next act goes on, and the next, and the next. I begin to sink lower and lower into my seat as each act chugs through. I keep taking pictures though, so as not to show my discontent with any one performer. No one has a sense of stage presence. There are a few glimmers of unshaped skill, but nothing yet that I deem good enough for a story about talent. Then the girl with an appreciation of many photographs steps onstage. She gives her CD to the man in control of the music, tells him the number, and steps back to middle stage. The song begins. Her face shifts slightly, an eyebrow raised. She walks backstage for a second.

“Oh great,” I think, “another one who isn’t ready.”

She walks back to center stage and her song begins. The first phrase cuts through the cloud above my head, and my shoulders relax. She smiles for the crowd. I take a picture. She is my story. She has a beautiful voice, incredible stage presence, and she is very easy on the eyes.

The tryouts end and I approach her to ask her permission to cover her in my story. She speaks with such confidence it makes me even more nervous. I’m not prepared, I don’t have questions, I just found out what I want to do with my article, and she is all too ready to answer the questions I don’t have. Her name is Alexandria Mazerolle, she is 20, and she is quite a talented singer. She has been on American Idol once and tried out another time. It is an awkward conversation on my part. These are the only questions I could mutter. I talk as if I am a lifetime fan, and I feel the same way.

The beauty of journalism is being thrust into the realm of a possibly uncomfortable, always human moment, and waiting for a light to shine. It can be as big as uncovering a huge political scandal, or showing the wild life of an artist, and it can be as small as finding a way to finish an assignment. It’s about doing the big work, voicing your freedom, and exposing the world at large, but it is also about giving attention to people who deserve it.As I walked up the concrete steps to the front doors of the Yuba College Theatre, a borrowed camera at my side, I was ready to begin coverage of the Yuba College Variety Show. I felt an overwhelming sense of nervous energy within myself; I didn’t know how I was going to cover this particular piece. I didn’t know how one would cover such a piece. Should I talk about the entire show in general? Should I follow one performer? Should I cover the history of the show? Or should I cover only the competition aspect of the show?

With all this in mind, I extended my hand, grabbed the handle of the door and pulled. My arm was met with a jolt of immobility. “Damn!” I thought as I tried the next door. Locked again. I walked to the bottom of the steps to the nearest door, both doors are locked again.

As my hope is fading, I walk the big circle to the other side of the theatre. Again, first door locked. My hope is lost as I reach for the next door wondering why I am even wasting my time. I grab the last door and pull. An open door. I let out a sigh of relief and I am in the building. I walk toward the door on the inside and, half expecting it to be locked, I pull. Again, I get to release some of my tension when I open the last door.

The room is dim. All of the participants are on the other side of feelings, but some people should pursue success from without the world of art.

The next act goes on, and the next, and the next. I begin to sink lower and lower into my seat as each act chugs through. I keep taking pictures though, so as not to show my discontent with any one performer. No one has a sense of stage presence. There are a few glimmers of unshaped skill, but nothing yet that I deem good enough for a story about talent. Then the girl with an appreciation of many photographs steps onstage. She gives her CD to the man in control of the music, tells him the number, and steps back to middle stage. The song begins. Her face shifts slightly, an eyebrow raised. She walks backstage for a second.

“Oh great,” I think, “another one who isn’t ready.”

She walks back to center stage and her song begins. The first phrase cuts through the cloud above my head, and my shoulders relax. She smiles for the crowd. I take a picture. She is my story. She has a beautiful voice, incredible stage presence, and she is very easy on the eyes.

The tryouts end and I approach her to ask her permission to cover her in my story. She speaks with such confidence it makes me even more nervous. I’m not prepared, I don’t have questions, I just found out what I want to do with my article, and she is all too ready to answer the questions I don’t have. Her name is Alexandria Mazerolle, she is 20, and she is quite a talented singer. She has been on American Idol once and tried out another time. It is an awkward conversation on my part. These are the only questions I could mutter. I talk as if I am a lifetime fan, and I feel the same way.

The beauty of journalism is being thrust into the realm of a possibly uncomfortable, always human moment, and waiting for a light to shine. It can be as big as uncovering a huge political scandal, or showing the wild life of an artist, and it can be as small as finding a way to finish an assignment. It’s about doing the big work, voicing your freedom, and exposing the world at large, but it is also about giving attention to people who deserve it.As I walked up the concrete steps to the front doors of the Yuba College Theatre, a borrowed camera at my side, I was ready to begin coverage of the Yuba College Variety Show. I felt an overwhelming sense of nervous energy within myself; I didn’t know how I was going to cover this particular piece. I didn’t know how one would cover such a piece. Should I talk about the entire show in general? Should I follow one performer? Should I cover the history of the show? Or should I cover only the competition aspect of the show?

With all this in mind, I extended my hand, grabbed the handle of the door and pulled. My arm was met with a jolt of immobility. “Damn!” I thought as I tried the next door. Locked again. I walked to the bottom of the steps to the nearest door, both doors are locked again.

As my hope is fading, I walk the big circle to the other side of the theatre. Again, first door locked. My hope is lost as I reach for the next door wondering why I am even wasting my time. I grab the last door and pull. An open door. I let out a sigh of relief and I am in the building. I walk toward the door on the inside and, half expecting it to be locked, I pull. Again, I get to release some of my tension when I open the last door.

The room is dim. All of the participants are on the other side of feelings, but some people should pursue success from without the world of art.

The next act goes on, and the next, and the next. I begin to sink lower and lower into my seat as each act chugs through. I keep taking pictures though, so as not to show my discontent with any one performer. No one has a sense of stage presence. There are a few glimmers of unshaped skill, but nothing yet that I deem good enough for a story about talent. Then the girl with an appreciation of many photographs steps onstage. She gives her CD to the man in control of the music, tells him the number, and steps back to middle stage. The song begins. Her face shifts slightly, an eyebrow raised. She walks backstage for a second.

“Oh great,” I think, “another one who isn’t ready.”

She walks back to center stage and her song begins. The first phrase cuts through the cloud above my head, and my shoulders relax. She smiles for the crowd. I take a picture. She is my story. She has a beautiful voice, incredible stage presence, and she is very easy on the eyes.

The tryouts end and I approach her to ask her permission to cover her in my story. She speaks with such confidence it makes me even more nervous. I’m not prepared, I don’t have questions, I just found out what I want to do with my article, and she is all too ready to answer the questions I don’t have. Her name is Alexandria Mazerolle, she is 20, and she is quite a talented singer. She has been on American Idol once and tried out another time. It is an awkward conversation on my part. These are the only questions I could mutter. I talk as if I am a lifetime fan, and I feel the same way.