Real Glamorous

Editing for the Behrend Beacon. Being part of the production team of a college paper. Late nights working in the newsroom. Sounds great, doesn't it?

Let's break this down. The editing team is all male except for the other two copy editors and myself. (The ad editor is also a woman, but she is never in the office during production nights.) The grand total is 16 people. Our newsroom is a tiny basement office a little bigger than my dorm room, no windows, with five functional Macs, each about as old as I am. There is a table is the middle and two couches lining two of the walls. Most of the office chairs are in varying states of disrepair. I've worked there for three weeks, and I couldn't tell you what color the table is. Covered with old papers: the Times, the local paper, the Collegian, Beacons from last week to last year. There are pizza boxes everywhere, and a common question is, "Is this pizza from tonight?" Up on the far wall is the board of shame. Nasty notes from companies whose ads we've botched, really, really bad articles, and a note screaming "LEARN HOW TO WRITE, COMM 001!"

As for the actual work of a production night. Since my job is to proofread, I have to wait around until one of the editors finshes their page. This could be a half an hour to three hours. I read whatever papers are lying around, talk with editors waiting for a computer, try in vain to get studying done. My night starts at 7:30, but it really starts to pick up around 9:30. Then pages are getting printed out, laid out and proofread. Our editor-in-chief is usually throwing tennis balls or wads of paper at his staff, cracking the most terrible jokes I've ever heard, or trying to get someone to wrestle with him. Youtube videos are a common pastime as well. Last night he was singing Rufus Wainwright's Hallelujah in Spanish.

It's hilarious, but it is far from glamorous. The women are vastly out-numberd, and the guys don't hold anything back. I've heard things that have actually made my eyes water. The saddest thing is, it's the sharpest conversation I get all week. Since there's never any space on the table, I check for an empty pizza box with the least-greasy bottom, and edit pages on top of that, sitting on a decrepit couch. I spend from five to seven hours in the office, waiting until the last page is done.

Last night was particularly fun; the kid who had been assigned the front-page article didn't turn anything in, and somehow myself and another person had been assigned the same article. So at 11:00 pm, I was given the front-page article. Somehow I interviewed three people, started up an incredibly slow and ancient PC, and cranked out 500 coherent words by midnight. As for next week, I have three articles to write, 500 words each. That equates to a six-page paper at least, complete with an interview with...I don't know who yet. On top of that, I have my four actual credit classes, and meetings Monday through Thursday nights.

Do I get paid for this? Not a cent. How about credits? I did the math, and for 10-15 hours of work per week, I get one credit in my transcript. So why do I do it? Because for whatever freakish reason, I love it. Reading this blog, I have no idea how I could even like it. But I'm gone, I'm sunk, I'm head over heels. I want this to be my life.

Go figure.