As I commence another all-nighter, and continue with my nearly-unbroken wail of "I can't write!", I wanted to mention some slightly more encouraging developments as well.
I guess I can start by just limning the week:
The same day as my last post, I got a call from a small Queens weekly, which had already expressed interest in my mold story. The editor (J '04, by the way) wanted to know if I would cover a debate in the 26th City Council District - one that went on without the front-runner in this Democratic town, Eric Gioia. Still recovering from my cold, I trudged to Long Island City, to observe a debate between Robyn Sklar -- a typical Green, smart, well-meaning and a bit clueless - and Nancy Jackson of that chameleon Independence Party, who couldn't quire conceal her true wingnut characteristics. The resulting article, as well as the editor's analysis, appears here - in addition to the mold story, which ran on the front page of the paper this week.
A poor thing, but mine own: I'm perhaps irrationally quite thrilled at my first clip in weeks. And now, he's already expressed a desire for the food pantry and even the Z Crew stories: so I'm real, in my own way. (It's nice to know if I'm not CJR caliber, I'm good enough for the Queens Chronicle.)
Also, some good progress on reporting for the two magazine pieces: I went to this yesterday, and after the obligatory VIP breakfast, started stalking young men with very short hair and guarded expressions, in the hope I'd find people willing to be part of a piece we might as well title "The Things They Carry." Surprisingly, allmost none outright refused to talk to me - too well bred, and maybe I'm about the age of their mom? And I met a few who might, I hope, be the characters I'm looking for. Meanwhile, my takeout story, on domestic violence in immigrant communities, has turned up a bunch of great possibilities, including this. I'm not giving any more detail for fear of jinxing myself.
Meanwhile, the prep for the spring is beginning -- and it don't look any easier. And this morning, I went to the briefing session for this class, which sounds like it guarantees that no-easier bit - while it helps you develop a viable book proposal. I'm now worrying frantically over my one-paragraph email pitch, which may or may not get me into the class. (I also learned yesterday that the fall scholarship money hasn't actually been given out yet. Which doesn't mean I'm anywhere near the top of the class, but it somehow cheered me to feel like it ain't over till it's over.)
What haven't I mentioned? My RW1 story for this week. Which I should have written after my return on Monday to I.S. 126, and Betty Pansione's library space, to hang out with the kids at Ramadan. But instead I tried to go to a kids' Diwali celebration on Wednesday, which didn't happen, and then to sniff at these guys' mosque yesterday, the first day of Eid, which turned out to be closed. Ultimately I wandered around the hood re-remembering stuff like the ecumenically named Allah Tawwakil Grocery, which advertises both Halal Meat and Spanish Grocery, and the park where amid all the Spanish one kid calls to another. "Wait, Ishmael!" All of the above in search of the "rock 'n'roll feature" demanded by the syllabus. I wish I'd had the stamina and nerve to go for a beer with one of the GIs, and I'd have declared a topic change.
I still might. Let's see if I can't weave something out of the gentle rabbi-voice and round face of young Naur, who responded to a generalized question about the Pakistani earthquake with "When one of us suffers, we all suffer." (Even the corpses, pal.) And hope that this good-reporting-energy doesn't dissolve under the conviction that I can't, actually, write a word.
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