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When I graduated, my professors all gave the same advice: Get a job at a newspaper.
I’ll drive by and get a shot.” It was a beautiful late summer day, and the sex offender was working on a car in his garage with an older man I took to be his father. “We heard that he’s enrolled in CSI and I was wondering…” Thomas, who was shirtless, wearing denim shorts, cut me off: “Why can’t you people leave me alone? Ten years later, when their president told them that journalists were “enemies of the American people,” and “mainstream media” was pumping out “fake news,” might my daylight notebook-and-camera ambush have made it more likely they’d nod their heads and say, When I got home from that first shift, I had a couple drinks and I called one of the professors I admired from American University, where I’d just completed a graduate degree in journalism. TRENDING: Enthusiastic, prolific, simplistic Chris Cillizza reaches new heights The article was the truth (Austin was not allowed to attend CSI), but not the whole truth.
“Excuse me,” I said, coming up the driveway with my notebook, “I’m looking for Thomas Austin.” “What for? The whole truth might have made mention of the fact that most of the people I asked about the situation on the college campus hadn’t heard about Austin and, once told, didn’t seem terribly concerned. My mom suggested I join the high school paper my senior year because I was “good at writing.” That was true.
I knew the market in New York City was tough, but my life was there, so I put in applications at probably half a dozen newspapers.
A friend wrote about real estate at the and told me they were hiring on the city desk.
At the time, writing and what I thought of as “reporting” did not necessarily go together, which worked for me.