“The great sadness of my life is that I never achieved the hour newscast, which would not have been twice as good as the half-hour newscast, but many times as good.”
Goodnight Walter Cronkite, you contributed more to journalism than you will know. Thank you. It is truly an end of an era
By now, mostly everyone around the world, that is if you care for the news and utilize Twitter, not counting those who fall into my age group who do not see the resourcefulness of such a powerful tool with the world’s voices at your fingertips has been following the election and subsequent protests, rallies and chaos taking place in Iran.
The rehashing of events by the likes of me would be more than unnecessary and not very useful, since I have no first hand knowledge of the events that occurred. What I lack in personal experience, however, I make up for in personal connection.
Born in Tehran, I am a post-1979 Revolution child, who slept through bomb sirens, spent nights in the basement with my parents and eventually left as a refugee to Los Angeles by way of Greece.
At 24, I don’t even have to worry about more than half the things my parents did when they were my age. I’ve been told more stories from those fateful years where a once revered and liberal Iran - the Paris of the Middle East, turned into a extremist country with no regard for human or women’s rights. My uncle, who was one of the Shah’s guards, saw so much violence that he used to tell my mother the smell of iron from the blood would not leave his nose.
And now, I feel as though whatever I did not and could not retain as a very small child is replaying before my eyes. There is something so deeply personal about watching the passion, commitment and fury happening in the streets of Tehran, where my parents grew up and my grandparents before that. I wish I could be there, as a writer and as an Iranian citizen - these are the moments in the world and in life where I realize why I wanted to become a journalist. These are the moments when I think, I want to be where the action is, I want to talk to those involved, to be a part of something so instrumental in causing change.
I still have relatives in Tehran, and a call to them tonight didn’t go through but I’ll try again soon. Hearing first person accounts would be amazing and the only vessel I have to do that now is Twitter, which has been the most useful tool in this entire process.
First three photos by .faramarz, last one by Hamed Saber
The Los Angeles Times blog - Jacket Copy, had a great post on a new volume that’s come out titled “First We Read, Then We Write: Emerson on the Creative Process,” by Robert D. Richardson. Of course the Emerson he’s referring to is Ralph Waldo, whose thoughts on writing have been collected from letters and essay by Richardson.
The best single bit of practical advice about writing Emerson ever gave — best because it is a cry from the heart, because it focuses on attitude not aptitude, and because it is as stirring as a rebel yell — is this: “The way to write is to throw your body at the mark when your arrows are spent.”
This was a phrase I had to read twice, as literary theory and analysis from my college days have been unwillingly replaced by a foray in service journalism. When it finally sunk in, it made so much sense. “The way to write is to throw your body at the mark when your arrows are spent.”
In other words, go all the way, push yourself all the way, until there’s nothing left.
This is how I feel about almost every aspect of my life, except maybe laundry and cleaning. I will exercise the utmost degree of lazyness I can muster in regards to the aforementioned things, but when it comes to writing, to the creative process, to even baking and most certainly relationships, I want to go all the way with as much passion, ambition and drive I can conjure up.
This reflection brings up two important things I’ve been thinking about a lot: my reasons for writing and landing an assignment.
For the former, I have many reasons - it’s what I love, where I belong, where I give 110 percent, where it’s not a job, not even a career, but a full fledging burning passion that I can’t ignore. For the latter, it’s something I’ve been struggling with lately. I have too many ideas, not enough outlets and a lack of responsive editors all standing in the way.
As an editor, I get a lot of emails from writers, most of which are cordial, and a handful which are so irritating and annoying. I disregard my feelings however and reply to them, because when I put myself in their position, I wouldn’t want an email I’ve sent to go unanswered forever. While I understand that editors are national and local publications receive hundreds of emails from people just like me, it just doesn’t seem right that even after at least two follow ups, they still don’t respond. I don’t need a “yes,” I just need a reply-either way. It baffles my mind.
I have one story lined up and due in the summer which I’m excited about, I’m working hard on my own ezine, ianyan, trying to use this place as an outlet, all the while working a 40-hour a week editorial position. But I want more. As any freelancer knows, committing to writing dozesn of emails and even worse-coming up with idea after idea which cannot in anyway guarantee an assignment is nerve wracking. I’m hoping something will bite, sooner rather than later.
I woke up to the great news this morning that Roxana Saberi, the American journalist who had been convicted of espionage and sentenced to 8 years in prison in Tehran, Iran has now been freed and reunited with her parents. She had been arrested in late January, followed by a one-day secretive trial.
My heart sinks every time I hear of a journalist being equated with a criminal or being accused of criminal activity. This case was especially close to home because my family is from Iran. I always remember the fact about how my life would have turned out if we had never left. How differently would I have turned out? Would my passions, goals and dreams have been the same? Would I have even considered becoming a journalist, knowing that because of what I said or did, I could be arrested and put in jail with an 8 year prison sentence? In my heart of hearts, I have to believe that my passions in life would not only have stayed the same, but would have been stronger.
Saberi’s case comes after that of Esha Momeni, a CSUN graduate student I have written about here before, who was arrested on Oct. 15, 2008 for videotaping interviews with members of the Campaign for Equality, a gender rights group in Iran. Momeni was held in the same prison-Evin- which Saberi was held for 25 days before she was released. Unlike Saberi, who will most likely return to her native North Dakota in a few days, she has since been forbidden to leave Iran.
Momeni’s case also hits close to home for me, again because she is from Iran and that CSUN is my alma mater. This could have very well been me.
In the U.S., journalists live and die by not only the deadline, but of the second amendment:
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.
America prides itself on this fact, but in countries like Iran or China or Cuba, a journalist cannot practice his or her craft without fear of imprisonment or worse, death.
One only needs to visit the Committee to Protect Journalists to see the attitudes towards journalists displayed in numbers killed, imprisoned and missing.
This cannot be said enough: Journalism is not a crime. Uncovering the truth and changing some tiny part of the world by reporting on it is not a crime. Being brave enough to do what these two women did is not a crime.
I can only hope that now, Momeni’s case be shown such swiftness because Saberi was released. Give her her passport, allow her to return home. You’ve got it all backwards, Iran. The love that your country’s journalists have for their home can be matched by no other. Those who seek to challenge, to bring honesty and bring democracy by their craft to the people and the country that they adore are not criminals. Why? Because they are not indifferent. Because indifference, as George Bernard Shaw said is a sin.
The worst sin towards our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be indifferent to them; that’s the essence of inhumanity.
So no, journalism is not the crime, indifference is the crime. Ignorance is the crime, turning a blind eye is the crime, being docile and apathetic is the crime.
Here is an excerpt from an essay written by Esha Momeni in 2007, translated by Sudi Farokhnia. Here you are, government of Iran, convicting a woman who has written these words and not allowing her the freedom to leave. Read her words, consider her intentions and then decide. Here is hoping for a quick return home for Esha.
I am dressed in white, head to toe. I am aware that the serenity and peacefulness of white does not represent my city, but when I am dressed in white I feel like a dove that is free, one that has not been earmarked and was never kept captive. As I stroll along the streets of my city, I feel like a bride, a bride that is walking towards a new promise, the dream of equality.
Iran and all that makes it unique - steep streets, narrow alleys and unmarked homes - is still the land of promise that we hold dear to our hearts. The women of this land are peacefully writing a glorious end to the bitter long story of inequality and injustice. Iran is still the covenant to those hands that would like to wash the mud of distress from the yarns of this land in the stream of peace and unity. Only then we can resurrect equality and knit white wings for the dove that represents unity. Meanwhile, behind every closed door, a young girl dressed in white is making history so that she can embrace the future with pride and honor.
My grandmother everyday practices her signature, as evidence of her existence and her uniqueness. Here in Iran, I, you, and our mothers are all brides dressed all in white, and with our peaceful approach we dance in the alleys from house to house so that our promise of equality and unity transforms the sounds of the chains on our feet to the melodies of an anklet.
Los Angeles, Mehregan Festival, 2007 :
A young lady with Channel eye-glasses is standing right outside the bridal booth:
“Excuse me, but may I have a few minutes of your time?”
There is no reaction so I continue.
“Have you heard of the One Million Signatures Campaign?”
She shakes her head as if to indicate “no” (at least I know she understands ¨Persian).
“Would you like to know?”
This time, she doesn’t even move her head so I continue:
“The One Million Signatures Campaign ….. inside Iran…”
She interrupts me: “I don’t travel to Iran.”
A couple of meters farther on, a female artist is discussing the work she has for sale. Self-assured, I walk towards her and it doesn’t take long before she says: “bring me the petition that fixes the root of the problems, these things won’t do the job” and then she walks away.
I attempt to talk to a few others, I get some smiles which have various meanings embedded in them: “forgive me I can’t”, caution, skepticism, pity…
I walk back to the Campaign booth inside the bazaar. I see my imperfections, I feel as if I have forgotten how to speak Persian or I can’t find the right words, or maybe words don’t have the same meaning in different parts of the world. Of course, I did manage to collect many signatures, and each person had their own personal reasons for signing. However, I couldn’t stop thinking: I, my mother, my sisters, Marjan, Azadeh, Maryam,… we were all just images, just like pictures that one quickly browses through in a furniture catalogue.
For more about Esha and her ordeal, visit For Esha
In the span of a week, two articles that put the social networking phenomenon known as Twitter through the ringer decided to grace the pages of the New York Times. One of them, “Let Them Eat Tweets,” was written by none other than Virginia Heffernan herself, a woman, who only weeks before declared her virtual hatred for the iPhone. The other, written by Ms. Snarky herself, columnist Maureen Dowd was titled “To Tweet or Not to Tweet.”
In these articles, both women not only profess their annoyance for a tool that is being used by millions of people around the world, they give Twitter a virtual gang beating, make it bleed to death and then leave it tossed on the side of the road.
“I would rather be tied up to stakes in the Kalahari Desert, have honey poured over me and red ants eat out my eyes than open a Twitter account,” wrote Maureen Dowd.
Twitter is connectivity for the poor, boasted Virginia Heffernan. Both came off sounding like elitist and obnoxious curmudgeons. I’m surprised I didn’t wake up the next day to a column from both of them that started with the phrase, “Back in my day…”
These recent tirades in the NYTimes against Twitter bring up fascinating observations about the newspaper industry and the people in it, mainly that that attitudes portrayed by the likes of Dowd and Heffernan are perhaps part of the reason why I wake up to media companies going bankrupt, institutional newspapers halting production and journalists being laid off a dime a dozen.
It is obvious that these curmudgeons still “don’t get it.” And by “it” I mean a variety of things, mainly that the newspaper industry is failing and needs to reexamine their models and strategies, that social media is valuable and that change is necessary and good.
Facing the facts is a necessary evil. Why not be proactive about the changes taking place in the industry, instead of writing a column about how much you hate this new internet phenomenon which does nothing to change public opinion, but instead really shows your true colors as a bitter, self-absorbed, dino-journalist who is resistant to change.
I mean, have you seen how many people have been laid off in the newspaper industry in 2009 alone? Have you? Do you need a refresher? That’s 8,484 and counting, in case you had forgotten. Meanwhile online publications and community journalism are soaring. It’s time to either step off your elitist pedestals, or join the game.
If you’re not interested, I say move over, and let an entire generation of passionate and ambitious journalists who understand social media and welcome change (myself included) take over, because obviously, someone is not doing something right.
Contrary to popular belief, I still pine to one day see my byline within the pages of the New York Times. I still believe in the thrill of the chase for a story, in long hours poured over research just to satisfy my own craving that I have my facts straight. I still get a rush every time I interview someone for an article and I still believe that journalism can change the world. I want to change the world. And apparently, so do a lot of young people, as journalism programs, at least at USC and Columbia University, have seen a huge increase in applicants:
“It’s like an adrenaline rush. Every day is different. Every story is different,” said Annenberg student Adrianna Weingold, 24. When she added, “There are very few careers that let you get out in the world and talk to people and learn something new every day,” an old flame within me leaped anew. Really.”
Adrianna, I am so there with you.
I am still unclear as to why the two aformentioned journalists have such a strong disdain for such a simple and small thing as Twitter. What is there to not “get,” I wonder. Why would someone who has their feet planted in an ever changing industry be such a curmudgeon? More importantly, why WOULDN’T you want to connect to people, especially your readers. These columnists, I believe, have forgotten one very important rule, that journalism isn’t about them. Journalism is about the world, about people, about different experiences and events. It’s a huge pool of diversity that keeps growing. Why a columnist who has millions of people read her column every week would purposely refuse to take part in a dialogue with them is just beyond me.
But you know, whatever. You just keep hammering away at your columns, and I’ll keep doing what I’m doing, along with the journalists who “get it” all across the the U.S and beyond. In the wise words of The Borg from Star Trek, resistance is futile.
I can’t think of the exact moment that I decided I wanted to be a writer, but I suspect that it was some time between the ages of 10 and 13. My first experience with journalism took place when I signed up for a newspaper class in 7th grade. I was a shy, timid student who was intimidated by my classmates at times. I kept mostly to myself and a few friends in my social circle, but more or less didn’t fit in. Unfortunately, the time I spent producing the newspaper was cut short when I was forced to switch schools in the middle of the year. I was upset and confused, and wondered to myself how this public school kid was ever going to make friends or succeed in the new private school I was going to be attending.
My new school didn’t offer me an outlet for my writing, so I had to create my own. I spent hours holed up in my room writing poetry in journals only appropriate for a 12-year-old girl. I’d read them out loud to myself and searched for poetry contests to enter while listening to Sarah Mclaughlan. What a 12-year-old was doing listening to music appropriate for Felicity in her college endeavors, I have no idea, but it helped me think.
After finding a contest I liked, I managed to print out my poem, typed in fancy cursive font and sent it off. A couple months later, I received a letter in the mail that my poem was slated to be published in an anthology. You can’t imagine what that did to a 12-year-old me. Actually, you might be able to. I was ecstatic to say the least. I must have danced all around the house at least a couple times.
I still have the anthology saved, although the poem is a bit embarrassing to ever reprint anywhere (trust me on this).
I guess you could say that was the first time I was “published.” It felt like I was high. The idea of being published brings with it such euphoria that I can’t even describe. That’s probably when I knew I didn’t want an M.D after my name, or a business degree under my belt. That’s when I knew that there wasn’t anything else I wanted to do in the world but write. So here I am.
Dear Education System of the United States of America,
How have you been? It’s only been almost two years since I’ve left you, so I think it’s time to have a heart to heart. In fact, a talk with you is long overdue. There’s a burning question I’ve been meaning to ask you ever since I realized that there are still people in the world who don’t know proper spelling and grammar:
What went wrong?
No really, I’d like to know. When did “your” and “you’re” become interchangeable? When did people stop caring about using “their,” “there” and “they’re” appropriately? Or that “whose” and who’s” and “its” and it’s” mean different things? And let’s not forget the “spell what you hear” policy those who shall remain unnamed employ: sandwich, breakfust, anywere, kindergarden - I could go on.
It’s just a really big shame. In all of this however, there is a glimmer of hope - a glimmer of hope that started in the most unlikely of places: Facebook. In an act of resistance, a lovely group aptly named “I judge you when you use poor grammar” emerged to fight the evils of English language everywhere.
The group was on a mission - a mission to gather as many examples of poor grammar and spelling to show the world that we are mad as hell and are not going to take ignorance against the written word any longer. It looks like after 360,634 members and 5,409 examples of poor grammar later, the mission has been accomplished: “I Judge You When You Use Poor Grammar: A Collection of Egregious Errors, Inadvertent Bloopers and Other Linguistic Slip-Ups,” birthed from the loins of one brave Facebook group will be coming to a bookstore near you on March 31, 2009.
Teachers of the world, I urge you to tell your students about this book. Students of the world, I urge you to listen to your teachers so you never end up in a collection like this. Education System of the USA take note - you’re obviously doing something wrong.
Before I graduated with a journalism degree almost two years ago, this little space of mine on the world wide web was just a place where I could share my thoughts, my likes and dislikes and the events which occurred on a daily basis. After I received my B.A, the thoughts I had about this blog began to change. I started to think more about what I was putting out there for the world to see. I began to worry about the topics I was discussing and the caliber of my writing. I thought up ways I could make this place better. I was rarely getting comments, so I might as well have just deleted everything I wrote and not look back. This was my thought process.
For a long time I didn’t write, or started to, but immediately erased my post, feeling self-conscious about everything I did here. I would look at websites like Dooce and try to figure out ways to achieve the same kind of popularity. Other times, I would consider converting my amalgam of posting topics into one niche idea that I would concentrate on, like journalism or food.
But the thing is, I’m not just about journalism or food, though they are perhaps my two biggest passions. I am about so many other things too. I slowly began to realize that I could never fit into a niche. This is why this blog is called “writepudding.” Not only is it a play on “rice pudding,” but it allows me to write about whatever I like, just like a pudding allows you to put in so many different and versatile ingredients.
The same inner struggles I experience with this blog, are the same ones I have about my professional career as a writer. There are times when I am so overwhelmed. There are days when I dream about leaving the city and renting a log cabin in Wisconsin just so I can think and write and write and think - just so I can clear out my mind and come up with an amazing idea for a novel. Then, there’s every day of my life, when I drive by the Los Angeles Times building in downtown, on my way to Santa Monica, wishing and hoping that I will have the chance to work there some day and wishing and hoping that that day was already here.
One thing is for sure - to be in this profession, either a journalist or a writer, the only thing that keeps you going is passion - because it sure as hell isn’t the money, or the perks, or the praise or the hours, because they all suck. You have to constantly reinvent yourself, your ideas, your skills and underneath it all, if you don’t have a burning fiery passion for it, it will fizzle out sooner than you can say “I’ve had enough.”
I don’t think I will ever have enough.
After a bout of writer’s block and much thought, I’ve decided the best solution to cure the struggles with feeling insecure about my writing and trying to get published and explore other writing opportunities is quite simple: more writing. It’s sortof like that Pepto Bismol commercial where a girl calls a help center because her friend is having a cherry overload and the customer service rep says the solution is more cherry. Or maybe I watch too much television.
I made some pretty aggressive resolutions this year in terms of my writing and I’m glad I did because they motiviate me to pursue what I love further. It has now been 47 days since the new year began and I am doing my best to balance a freelance writing career with a full-tim job as an editor. Needless to say, it’s difficult. I have published a couple articles online, but nothing gives me more of a thrill than print or a publication that reaches and affects a large number of people in the U.S and abroad.
It has been almost two years that I have graduated school. In my dreams before I left school, I imagined myself as a reporter for a publication like LA Weekly, writing short stories on the side, developing ideas for a novel and inching towards my ultimate goal of writing for a national magazine and the New York Times.
Quite often, life does not work out the way you plan, especially when you’re still wrapped up in the protective cocoon known as school. While I am very thankful I have a job, especially one in the field I studied and have such passion for, I want more. I want to be the young reporter who breaks news stories, who affects people’s lives, who encounters amazing people and new experiences through the articles she writes. I want work long hours and work hard, if it means writing something I’m proud of, if it means writing something that others want to read.
Anyway, enough romanticizing on my soap box for today. I’m sticking to my resolutions. For now, I’ve compiled a list of publications that I’m going to pitch ideas to. Hopefully, one of them (or more I hope) will bite. In the meantime, I’ve made a lot of meaningful connections with writers, journalists, editors and PR people on the amazing phenomenon known as Twitter. I hope to grow and continue these relationships. I’m hopeful and looking forward to accomplishing the first in a series of goal I’ve set out for my life.
“If you believe that some day it’s going to happen, some day it probably will happen. You just have to make sure you’re there when it’s happening, and ideally you’re at the front of the parade, and the principle beneficiary of when it happens, but it’s not a kind of thing where you just sort of sit back and wait.”
- Steve Case
Photo by hamedmasoumi
I often blame my temporary inabilities to write on my surroundings. Sometimes I can’t think when it’s too quiet and other times, I can’t concentrate if I’m anywhere but a library. Other days it has to do with the day of the week. Although I have the time on weekends, all I want to do is stay in bed and watch bad television. On the weekdays, when I’m super charged with energy, I have to concentrate on other responsibilities. It’s a lose-lose situation. When I think about the fact that I have to compromise my writing for the time or the place, I feel sad. I wish I could think of a more eloquent synonym, but it really makes me sad that that’s what it’s come to.
I often think that the only way I’ll be able to write anything worthwhile is to go hide away in a cabin for months until I come up with something that I find fairly decent. I need the quiet, the change of atmosphere, the scenery to inspire me, to make me come up with ideas that the concrete jungles of Los Angeles are stifling.
Writing habits are an interesting topic and I’m not entirely sure if I’ve discovered mine yet. I tend to write ideas down and dwell on them for a long time. I’ll write the title of a story I want to work on and save it, or I’ll see something on the news or hear someone having a conversation and realize how great it would be to include that in a story. Mostly, I think my inspiration comes from life, from relationships, from what people say and do, to what they don’t say and do. I try to draw from reality as much as possible because for me, reality is just as entertaining, if not more, than fantasy.
I write everywhere. I write on post-it notes, notebooks that I haven’t used for years, scraps of paper, the notepad I use at work, I even take down notes on my iPhone. I’ve tried to buy fancy notebooks so I can keep my thoughts in one place, but they always seem to escape me. These days, when I do write in somewhere other than a centralized place, I take my post-it notes and my scraps and everything else and tape them in my main notebook.
I tend to write bits of ideas on paper and then expand those ideas on my computer. I like writing while I’m sitting on my bed, with a cup of tea, especially when it’s raining. My dream would be to have one of those window-sill type ledges where you pile up pillows and read or write.
I stumbled across a blog, Rodcorp, that highlighted some of the work and writing habits of some of my favorite writers and people. I echo a lot of their sentiments.
Jonathan Safran Foer, who is best known for his 2002 novel, “Everything is Illuminated,” has habits that sound like mine:
I am a completely horizontal author. I can’t think unless I’m lying down, either in bed or stretched on a couch, and with a cigarette and coffee handy. I’ve got to be puffing and sipping. As the afternoon wears on, I shift from coffee to mint tea to sherry to martinis. No, I don’t use a typewriter. Not in the beginning. I write my first version in longhand (pencil). Then I do a complete revision, also in longhand. Essentially, I think of myself as a stylist, and stylists can become notoriously obsessed with the placing of a comma, the weight of a semicolon. Obsessions of this sort, and the time I take over them, irritate me beyond endurance.
Stephen Fry seems to have encapsulated my fears:
As a young writer–I was then contemplating how to move forward after my first effort–I felt so enthusiastically and agonizingly aware of the blank pages in front of me. How could I fill them? Did I even want to fill them? Was I becoming a writer because I wanted to become a writer or because I was becoming a writer? I stared into the empty pages day after day, looking, like Narcissus, for myself.
Virginia Woolf does what I feel I must do:
I don’t take another job. I don’t do anything. I go up to my house in the country and pull out all the plugs, virtually. I just do it nonstop until I’m finished. I envy writers who can write on planes and take a break for a week and then get back to it. I have to get into a sort of zone. [...] With writing, I don’t know what it is. I just have to get into a complete world. It has something to do with an inability to concentrate, which is the absolute bottom line of writing.
I’m hoping to get a better sense of what I’m capable of in terms of writing and also my habits this year.
