I get up ten minutes before the alarm clock rings, waiting for that first text message that dictates the activities of the day. I see my phone. Still nothing, I close my eyes again. What was I dreaming about? There is no time, the clock rings alarm clockIt’s seven o’clock in the morning on any given day. We have to go to that Press conferencethat breakfastthat protestI never know what the day will bring. There is no fixed place except an inquisitive attitude, the notes I write and this waiting room in which I can breathe.
This past week, I’ve spent the time between notes on investigate the White Earth colony. I have traveled as far back in time as historical records allow, to the first population censuses of the late 19th century. I walked through its streetsI talked to the neighborsI collected several hours of interviews. The material has to be turned into a report, to give shape to what is vague, to offer something to the reader. I try out different registers and points of view, making use of literary resources. The reader must be moved and continue reading.
I have thought about it journalism as a way to ensure the relevance of the literature in the world. For many years, what I wrote came from my imagination, operated under a different logic and was not concerned with the factor of veracity. It was fiction, the crazy lady in the house talking. When one writes with a commitment to reality, the process is altered. One has to give an account, tell what happened and address it in its complexity. Invention is no longer a problem, because the stories and the characters already exist. All that remains is the gaze and its expression in words.
I’ve spent more time than I’d like to take revising my words before sending them to the editor. When I cover an event, I’m aware that what I say goes into print, circulates in all directions on the Internet, becomes part of history. How do I talk about reality? There are so many ways to tell a story and none of them is the right one. I write with the weight of knowing that my words will be taken as true, despite the imperfect medium of language.
Time is running out, we have to move on to something else. The rhythms of the newspaper force us to renew ourselves at every moment and not to linger beyond what has happened. Is this compatible with literature or good writing? Probably not, but we will not stop trying. If literature allows us to build separate worlds, in journalism we have to respond to what happens in the world and adapt to its rhythms, or at least negotiate with them. “And if the dream feigns walls in the plain of time, time makes it believe that it is born at that moment.” And so on, until we move on to something else.
More from the same author:
- Experimental music
- Writing to get to know each other
- End of semester, beginning of vacation
#Diary #reporter
