On Journalists. “Journalists can be odd people,” says the New Yorker Magazine this week, in one of the great literary understatements of modern times. “Their main job is to interrogate the world; to that end, they must be extroverted but discontented, energetic but grumpy, open-minded but incredulous. When the theater critic Alexander Woollcott used the phrase “ink-stained wretches,” in 1921, he applied it to writers “who turn out books and plays,” but there’s a reason it’s now associated with reporters: their work is animated by gleeful, even joyous, dissatisfaction.”

Maria says this is the perfect description of me, and I suspect she is right. I am an ink-stained wretch. I am discontented energetic and grumpy, and I work hard at being open-minded, and for sure, I am joyously dissatisfied.

Most writers started out as reporters. It’s great training for writing professionally. You write a lot, absorb and gather information quickly, soak up material for books and thought, interact with all kinds of people and learn how to talk and how to listen.  People are always pissed off at you for one thing or another, nobody every feels fairly treated.

You get a pretty thick hide, and fast.

Reporting toughens writers up, almost nobody trusts you or wants you around, you have to charm and bull your way through a continuous obstacle course.

My reporting days turned out to be perfect training for the blog, and also for writing books.  I am used to deadlines and writing in a shorter form. And I have to look at the world in a new and fresh way every single day. Writing is my life, it is not a big deal for me.

Reporters are superstitious and so are writers. I am happy with my statuary corner. I have a beautiful muse on my desk, and several in the corner. A cherub, a Madonna and one of Ed Gulley’s “Mr. Blockheads.” A lot of mojo and inspiration coming from that corner.