Walking into the backroom of the journalism room is like walking into a tornado. Dozens of designers, writers and photographers whirl around amid marked up issues and food scraps that probably should have been thrown away days ago.
Writers shout out desperate pleas for edits and designers wait patiently for someone to finish editing their page and let them package already.
The clock is spinning just as fast as the tornado of 75 staffers. Just like that, deadline is over. It moved too fast, my story isn’t done, my page isn’t done. Two weeks worth of work later and I need more time.
But none of my stories or designs have ever truly been done.
I’ve been thinking about this column since the senior issue my freshman year — four years and 56 issues ago.
And I could think about it for another four years, trying to find the perfect focus to sum up Harbinger's impact on me in 450 words. I could spend months writing and rewriting this story only to scrap the whole thing and restart.
But the truth is, Harbinger moved too fast for me to sum it up into one perfect column. Too fast for me to edit every story I wrote until I was content or restart each design until I didn't look at it sideways with scrunched eyebrows.
The second I became acquainted with a story, felt comfortable with its players and plot and pacing — I was thrown into the next issue. The second I got the hang of one position, News Section Editor or Circulation Manager, I was thrown into a new role — Assistant Print and now Head Print Editor.
I could spend the next four years as Head Print Editor and still mess it up.
But the point of Harbinger isn’t to put out a perfectly polished issue every two weeks — Tate’s 40-page-long critiques have proven that.
The point is to push myself and make mistakes (Libby put ad here). Harbinger wasn’t meant to lead me to perfecting my craft, but rather, to growing my passion.
And those who are right by me in this whirlwind of a “class” are the ones who have helped me to slow down. My co-editor Sophia Brockmeier’s calm response of “it’s OK,” when I've convinced myself the world is falling apart, has pulled me through excruciating deadlines.
After interviews falling through, bad photos and last-minute page switches, I’ve learned to adapt. Harbinger doesn’t leave room for perfectionism. I’ve learned that it doesn't mean I’m falling behind or failing if my work isn’t perfect.
My version of a compliment has molded into “I don’t hate it.”
So, I don’t hate this column. But I don't like it. The lede is weak, the focus could be more creative, the wording in the second paragraph is clunky.
But it’s 3 a.m. on a Thursday, and it’s time to go to print.
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