My dream job cut short
I decided while in middle school that I would be a journalist one day. Sifting through the endless career choices available to a seventh-grader, I wasn’t armed with much more than a dream (and the acquired generational philosophy that the world is my oyster).
But I knew I wanted to do something fun. Creative. I wanted to travel the world and meet people, do things and see places. I wanted to write.
Journalism was just perfect.
So that’s how I managed my high school and college careers, under the notion that journalism was simply perfect for me. And no venue was more perfect than The Sun, the paper I read growing up in Maryland.
It’s easy to imagine how I felt my first day as a reporter at that very paper. I felt an excitement and pride that carried me day to day, as I tried to absorb the knowledge from talented journalists who surrounded me in the newsroom. I got to know some of the greatest writers and editors in the industry.
They took the time to support a young reporter, even when she was at her worst.
I remember, for example, the first summer I spent interning on the business desk. I had never worked at a major daily before (unless, of course, the University of Maryland’s college paper, The Diamondback, counts), so adjusting to a new environment and completely foreign topic caused me more anxiety than I now care to admit.
Apparently, my anxiety didn’t matter, and I was assigned my first Sun daily. One of the courts had handed down a decision involving a local guitar company. It came in late in the day; I had never thought about civil court proceedings a day in my life. Writing that story was nerve-racking, to say the least, but I got through it. And nothing can replace the feeling of accomplishment that comes with seeing your first ‘‘real’’ byline.
More important, I admired my editors for having faith in me to write that story, despite my lack of experience. They encouraged me to ask questions
Photo by Elizabeth Malby
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