Hello.

Journalists (well, most of them anyway) tend to shy away from any type of self-exposure, including myself. It’s about the STORY, not about YOU - that’s what we’ve been told over and over again by journalism professors and editors and publishers, and rightfully so. It’s not about us, it’s about those we report on.

So you can understand the hesitation and anxiousness I felt when I decided to post the above photo of (gasp!) myself, but I’ve grown tired of feeling that way.

I have been wondering what to make of this blog ever since I started writing in it. I’ve written about baking bowling ball cakes and print newspaper consumption in Europe and my love of  kitsch, not fit for consumption movies like “Love is All There Is,” and why I hate and love Los Angeles all at the same time.

I’ve described how I must be the only person on the face of the Earth who can’t have a blood test because of impossible to find veins and how I wanted to crawl into a hole and die when I found my first white hair and documented Henry the Maltese’s entire knee surgery (the one section of my site I get the most emails about).

I’ve agonized over the very thing all young writers agonize about - having a career doing what they love and at the same time felt like all my journalism dreams were coming true.

I have complained, whined, explained how beautifully baking calms me down, highlighted some of the articles I’ve worked on over the last year and also probably talked a lot of crap.

I’ve done all this while wondering - what the hell am I writing about?

I always feel like I’m all over the place when I write here, which I guess is an accurate reflection of my life at the moment.

I want everything at once. And as such, I want to write about everything at once. And that’s why if you browse through the posts on these pages, you’ll find everything from pumpkin muffins to musings on the 2008 presidential election and recaps of Bollywood films.

For a very long time, I’ve wrestled with what to write here - the self-loathing and criticism that comes with being a writer is no exaggeration, believe me. I have stared at so many blank posts, only to write a few lines and delete the entire thing. I wasn’t wasting any paper, but it still felt like a waste.

And so, I was driving (more like standing still) on the traffic infested freeways of Los Angeles when it finally occurred to me what this blog was and should be about: The Human Journalist.

You might be thinking,  huh? what exactly is a journalist if not human? Well, according to this UK poll, being a journalist was recently regarded as the third most untrustworthy profession - so to some, I’m sure “journalist” is synonymous with Beelzebub.

Many people tend to think of journalists as soul-less leeching creatures who are always on the chase for their next story, no matter what the cost. And while I haven’t run across this too often in my career, there are times when I’ve felt the deep-seeded hate.

Today was one of those days.

I called a source to fact-check a few paragraphs of information and within the first few seconds of speaking to him, I knew he was going to lash out at me.

“Is that how you people operate?” he said to me in a condescending tone. “Is that how you work?”

Uncalled for kind sir, uncalled for.

A few months ago I was on a phone with a woman, trying to explain that I was in search of some information for a story and she cut me off and started explaining that the way I had approached her on the phone was all wrong.

“Don’t they teach you how to properly talk in journalism school?”

She went on and on, belittling me, refusing to answer questions, but I carried on and finally got what I needed out of her, while dreaming of ramming the phone all the way through the line and up  her nose and then going across the street to the bar to get a shot of tequila and cry. And I don’t even drink.

I guess what I’m trying to say, in the most roundabout way, is that my entire life I’ve been trying to find the central part of what ties all the other parts of me together. It would be easy and almost lazy,and not even  entirely true to say  that it’s my ethnicity that’s at the core of my being. Being Armenian is a huge part of who I am, but it would be unfair to say that it is the one thing that completely effects all other areas of my life.

But what does effect and infects its tentacles into all parts of my being, is journalism. It has always been my core, the one thing that I remained certain about above all others, throughout adolescence and high school and college and ‘the real world.’

It makes me feel alive.

And so in an effort to finally unify this blog under one concept, put a soul behind the third most untrustworthy profession and use this truly as a comfortable space to not only express my ideas, and half-ideas, but to connect with others, I’m now The Human Journalist. I write, I bake, I dream about seeing my byline in the L.A. Times and NY Times, I love kitsch, awesomely bad movies that would make any film critic lose respect for me. I love Los Angeles, but I’m not afraid to say I hate it too. I want to write about the problems this sprawling landscape has, and meet some amazing people in the process. I want to craft words together for my stories as beautifully as my grandmother strings together the thinnest of yarns for the winter cardigans she makes.  I want journalists to be respected and acknowledged and not underpaid. I want to write feature stories that have the potential to make someone stop and think, “Huh. That was interesting.” I want to see all the hard work I put into an investigative story and say - I really made some kind of dent in the world.  I want to be able to make other people feel the way I feel when I read stories from my favorite writers.

I want to feel (virtually) alive. And I want to bake some amazing desserts to reward myself with.

So here I go. This is an experiment into the human side of a journalist - about her wants and dreams, about her likes and dislikes, some of which have nothing to do with journalism at all and about discovering herself on this torturous yet rewarding path that only a crazy person would purposefully choose.

This is place where I’ll probably do a lot of what I was doing before, but without any fear or anxiety - and for a writer, to write without either the former or the latter is complete and utter peace.

I am intrepid, see me write. And of course, welcome.

When I traveled to London, Dublin and Paris earlier this year, taking photos of people actually reading newspapers became sort of an obsession for me. As a young journalist who was thrust out of school a little over three years ago into a melting media market that bled jobs daily, life became uncertain and depressing and well, worrisome.

I felt as though the dreams I had been building upon since middle school of becoming a writer were falling through the cracks - and that I would never get them back. I never could be a Nicholas Kristof of the New York Times, writing about worldly problems and changing the world in the process. I could never be a Ben Badikian, an editor at the Washington Post who came into possession of The Pentagon Papers. I would never be in that atmosphere. That excitement, that time.

I could never write for the Los Angeles Times or Atlantic Monthly or the dozen other publications which I cherished more than life itself.

And while now, I have resolved my fear and am more in the “I can” rather than the “I can’t” box, the possibility of not fulfilling my passions is still a frightening concept. I know I have what it takes to write for the L.A. Times and the NY Times and whatever else. I just know it. It’s the one thing in my life that I am completely, 100 percent sure of. When I get there, I don’t know. But I will get there.

In the meantime, I found comfort knowing that there were still people who actually read newspapers, even if it was overseas. There are papers everywhere you go in London. On the tube, in cafes, on the street - it’s really a reading culture, and as someone from Los Angeles which suffers more from a “tv culture,” it made me feel at home.

The world of media is changing right in front of our eyes and it’s amazing to be in the middle of this revolution. I am excited to see what the future holds for journalism, but for now, I revel in the fact that somewhere in the world, someone cares.

I love subcultures. Oh I do. I love them so much. This explains why I can watch endless episodes of Louis Theroux documentaries and never get tired. This is the reason why I look forward to Hoarders and 16 & Pregnant every week, as if my life depends on it. This is the reason why that when the chance presented itself to cover a Belly Dance Festival, there was no way I could say no.

You can find the article in the Glendale News-Press here: All The Right Moves, but here is a choice quote on the art and history of belly dancing:

“It doesn’t matter what year it is, this is never going to go out of style as women become more in touch with themselves, their own power and lives.”

Enjoy some photos!

There’s something you should know about me. I love prison documentaries and homicide/crime programs, especially on a lazy Saturday night.

I find them riveting. I’ll sit down to watch just one, and before you know it, I’ve spent eight hours learning about the New Mexico Penitentiary and the riots that went on there in 1980 (Thanks, MSNBC)

On one particular Saturday afternoon, I found myself watching a documentary on the L.A. County Coroner and how they deal with homicides. Of course, I couldn’t change the channel because a) It was about Los Angeles and b) I find the inner workings of government agencies that deal with criminals and death just fascinating.

This documentary was mostly about how the Coroner deals with deaths from gang violence, accidents, etc. and wasn’t anything too out of the ordinary, but something struck my interest enough to wander onto their website - which comes complete with a creepy gift shop named “Skeletons in the Closet,” mind you.

After a few minutes, I felt like I had struck gold:

The L.A. County Coroner has a database dating back to the 60s of bodies that have remained unclaimed, meaning no next of kin has come forward to claim and bury the body.

The wheels in my head started spinning with a million questions. But who are these people? How did they die? Why hasn’t anyone come forward? For days I thought about this list I had “discovered.”

The thoughts wouldn’t go away. I wanted to know more. I thought about how I could frame this into a story and who I could pitch it to.

Somehow at the same time, Spot.us, a new innovative journalism model was on my radar. I had been thinking about submitting a proposal to the site, which uses crowd-funding to support stories, for quite a while. Luckily for me, my thoughts about the coroner and Spot.us collided at the same time.

I immediately got to work researching, interviewing an L.A. County Coroner official, digging up facts, details and eating it all up all along the way.

The result?

A story proposal on the site which you can see here ( as well as on the sidebar of this site). Telling you that I’m excited about being a part of this is the biggest understatement of the year. This story makes me feel like my journalism dreams are finally coming true. For the first time in a long time, I feel so happy that I’m actually somewhat proud of myself, and that’s hard to come by for a writer, believe me.

If you’re reading this, and you also share a morbid fascination with me about where this vast city’s dead end up when no one comes forward to claim them (sometimes due to not being able to afford it), and how certain groups are helping fill the gaps where the city cannot, please consider donating to see this story come to life. Or at least pass it on if you can!

I promise to get you a “Body Outline Polo” on my way out of the Coroner’s office.

Photo by  flattop341

On a whim one day, while I was searching on Twitter, I found an incredible lead for a story that I immediately pitched to my editor. It was about a Los Angeles area skating rink that had been having an LGBT skate night for the last 23 years, mostly kept under wraps to give that particularly community their privacy.

When the story was given the green light, I made my way to the skating rink after an 8 hour  day at work and a one hour drive across the L.A. landscape on a breezy Wednesday night. The next three hours at this rink, where I spent time interviewing around 10 gay skaters, as well as management and watching this fairly large group of people hammer out the most amazing moves on the rink floor can only be described as euphoric.

As if I needed any more confirmation that I had the word “journalist” imprinted in the strands of my DNA, this was it. I still have not managed to describe the high of talking to people about important issues in such a grand atmosphere and then going home and having the power to string all the words together to make it sound coherent.

When I left around 10:30 p.m., I was incredibly tired, wishing I could just blink myself home like Barbara Eden from “I Dream of Jeannie” but beaming from ear to ear. I loved every single minute of my time in that rink, I loved the interviews, the transcribing, the follow up calls, the writing, editing and of course the skating.

The finished result can be found here. I can’t wait to feel this rush again, which I’m hoping will carry me over to bigger and better things within the amazing realm of journalism.

There are few words I can use to describe the rush and thrill I feel when I’m reporting and writing. If you want a simple answer, it’s that I feel alive. I feel an incredible rush of energy, and  although I don’t think I will ever shake that initial nervousness I feel when I approach someone to talk to, once I get started I can’t stop.

I somehow generate this incredible power that keeps me going - even if I’ve been on my feet for hours and I’m so tired that if given the chance, I could fall asleep. The surge of passion I have for journalism and writing is unlike anything I have ever experienced in my life. It is the opposite of apathy at its finest.

I don’t feel like it’s a job, I feel like I’m in the midst of providing an incredible civil service, talking to people who want and need to be heard, allowing people to pick up a paper or go online to discover something new that has my byline attached to it.  I feel free. I become an optimist, even amidst job cuts and dwindling readership. There is no elegant way to describe the chill that runs through my body when I can introduce myself as a journalist - it’s electrifying and astounding all at the same time. It is every single emotion in me coming alive. It is what I am meant to do in this lifetime. I feel it in my bones.

If you’re wondering where this sudden state of euphoria is coming from, it’s that I was on a reporting assignment tonight (that I pitched)  that really was the highlight of my week. The atmosphere was amazing, the questions I was asking got some amazing responses, the love that I was feeling was overwhelming and I know that when I’m done writing this story, it’s something that I am going to be so proud of.

After talking to a few people, I stepped outside in the almost cold Los Angeles air, my wild, curly hair dancing with the light breeze. If no one had been around, I would have let out a little happy dance, but I smiled to myself instead. I felt my soul radiating from inside. I was feeding it with passion and it was satisfied.

“I knew I was going to be a journalist, and that was it…full stop,” says Suzy Welch. Truer words have never been spoken.

I have the worst case of the Mondays, and I fear it’s not going away until Friday. Oh dear.

This past Sunday, I had the chance of attending, photographing and  writing about a fruit picked put on by Food Forward, an all volunteer grass roots organization that gleans fruit off of the trees of Los Angeles residents and donates 100 percent of the proceeds to food pantries. Although it required waking up pretty early, it was a thrilling experience for me, especially since I pitched the idea myself, and because I am such an advocate for sustainable food. I’ve included some photos here, but you can read the article through this link.

It’s 11:30 p.m. and I have been watching my new favorite show “Parking Wars” for a few more hours than I planned on. In between commercials, it dawned on me that I haven’t written here in close to a month. I feel pretty guilty about it, because I hate wasted space, especially wasted internet space. If you’re going to take the time to occupy a portion of the web, at least have the decency to update and properly run your blog or site. Yes, I know I’m being a Nazi. So sue me.

I’ve been busier than usual lately, trying my best to climb the faltering vines of the journalism industry. I am regularly contributing to the features section of a newspaper here in Los Angeles, running my own news site and focusing on pitching to magazines and other publications, all the while trying to maintain a full-time editing job. 

Let me tell you, it’s not hard out there for a pimp. It’s hard out there for a writer, ok?

There are times when I want to come here and just write in big block letters: “Los Angeles Times, PLEASE hire me. I can do this. I have the passion. I have the skill. I will not let you down.” But I can’t because  journalism is in dire straits right now. Every time I read the tweets of various editors of publications I admire and would die to write for, like the New York Times or Huffington Post or LA Weekly, I just want to send out an SOS. “Look, I know things aren’t looking good for us reporters at the moment. But I have the chops and I have the ideas and I know the web. I live social media. I can even take my own photos!”

But life isn’t that simple, especially when you throw writing into the mix. I consider myself slightly lucky, because I have a job that allows me to be involved in the industry and I’m getting published in print - that’s shocking in 2009. But I want more. I want so much more. I want to be actively involved in investigative journalism and human rights and social causes. Call me naive, but I still think that journalism has the capacity to change the world.

When I was a college student a few years ago, one of my journalism professors told me that to be a journalist, one must be intrepid.

Intrepid.

Characterized by resolute fearlessness, fortitude and endurance.

It’s true. People don’t become journalists (at least the ones that don’t go into broadcast) so that they can be rich. They become journalists because they have the same combination of passion and skill that I do. They’re intrepid. They want to change the world. And no matter how many people lose their jobs or how many publications close their doors, I still believe journalism can and will change this world. 

We just need to find a way to pull it back from its boot straps. And we will, it’s the how and when that are still up for debate.

I find it bittersweet and strange that I have lived in this area of Los Angeles practically my whole life and haven’t really had the chance to get to know my neighbors or talk to them - unless a disaster strikes. The past few days, I have taken every opportunity to document the relentless fire that’s practically burning down my humble neighborhood, and in my outings, I’ve developed a rapport with a few of people who I share this street with.

One man spoke to me about how difficult it was to get fire insurance on his house. Another told me he was visiting his sister who was all but terrified of the fires. As I stood there, with ash and smoke all around, he told me that tile roofing was the safest in this type of situation, having to reach unthinkable temperatures before being affected by fire. I wish interactions like this didn’t occur only in a time of emergency.

The Station Fire has currently reached more than 122,000 acres with what seems like no end in sight.  Helicopters are buzzing above, and we’ve woken up to more ash and smoke than ever before. I find it pretty unnerving that surrounding streets on both sides have been evacuated, yet we haven’t been told to move.  I’m not too frightened of the fire, it’s when I start to think about the items in my house that could go up in flames that I get panicky.

Last night, I took a trip around the neighborhood again, running into a dozen closed off streets and citizen journalists taking photos and setting up their video cameras of the fire all along Foothill Blvd. in La Crescenta. The Station Fire it seems, has its own set of paparazzi.

I made a stop and bought pet food to take to the Pasadena Humane Society, where animals whose homes were threatened by the Station Fire have been brought. As I pulled up into my driveway, there were fire trucks galore.  I soon heard the fire chief trying to explain to a couple why  the enormous amounts of water drops do not produce immediate results.

“When it rains, does your bedroom get wet? Is your living room soaked?” he said.

I asked if they needed water or food. They thanked me and said they were all taken care of, but something tells me they would have appreciated my mom’s Armenian cooking.

By the time I went to sleep,  it looked like the fire might have calmed down. By morning, it was a different story. Smoke yielding cloud bombs descended around my house, making me feel like I was either on Mordor or Mars. The yellow tint outside made it seem like I had stepped into a photograph from 1976.

It wasn’t long before it started to get bad enough that fire trucks showed up and the helicopters became more prominent, along with the firechasers who came up to my street to capture it all.

As helicopters swarm and make the houses underneath them shake, and the people in them shake with fear of an impending fire, the citizens of this small town are hoping for the best.