I spent nearly 2.5 hours with a local band last week. The guys were great, naturally had several fantastic (but unpublishable) stories, and I ended with pages upon pages of notes.
Turns out the lead singer is originally from a town about 40 minutes from me. Same area code. And he had met/jammed with the lead singer of another band from our hometown areas. That guy is the cousin of my best friend. No big deal.
Yet I was still in for a surprise when I read edits from B.H.
“In reading it I felt as if you enjoyed doing the reporting and the writing.”
Absolutely. But I can’t believe it was so apparent in the writing. This story is one of a handful I’ve been excited about all semester. I’m an extremely competitive person, and I refuse to give less than 110%.
How, then, to reconcile that drive with stories I don’t care about? There have been several for which I’ve felt no compassion, forced creativity and a general detachment for their existence. Not to say I didn’t write them excellently, but the animation was lacking.
Here’s a toast to more zeal.