How To Write News
Periodically, there is an ad for a reporter for The Daily Astorian that I am tempted to answer. Since I am not a big fan of either the owner or the editor, I have not. What I have done, is assemble this little sampling of my writing skills in case I ever change my mind, or they die in a newsworthy fashion.
Sample Cub Reporter News Writing Skills
What I write: What I mean
According to published reports: I got scooped by The Oregonian
Activist: Will talk to press
Allegedly: He did it but Josh can't prove it in court
Beloved: Someone who's been around so long no one can stand them anymore (e.g., Jerry Lewis)
With News Wire Services: No original writing
Celebrity: Someone that has a publicist
Choked up: Definitely could have been crying
Confirmed bachelor: See "Flamboyant"
Conflagration: A fire in the first paragraph, a blaze in the second and an inferno in the third.
Controversial: He did something bad but I'm not sure what
Couldn't be reached for comment: Didn't return call by 5 PM
Dapper: Hasn't bought new clothes in 20 years
Diminutive: Under 5 feet tall
Effervescent: Won't shut up
Elite: See "prestigious"
Embattled: He should quit
Entrepreneur: Hasn't made it yet, but I'm doing a nice story about her
Exclusive neighborhood/school/club: I can't get in
Exclusive: No one else returned my calls
Family Values: Right-wing idiot
Feisty: Short, old female
Flamboyant: Homosexual
Gentleman bandit: He wore nice shoes
Good Samaritan: Too stupid to run away
Guru: See "Self-styled"
Hero cop: Died
Hero firefighter: Put out a fire
High-brow: Boring
Highly placed source: One who would talk
Hot button issue: Only Stever Forrester cares about it
Informed source: Reads The Daily Astorian
Innocent bystander: Too slow to run away
Intensely private: Not promoting anything right now
Investigating: Waiting for someone to drop a dime
Knowledgeable observer: Me
Knowledgeable observers: Me and the person at the next desk
Legendary: About to die
Long-time companion: They had sex once
Mega-mogul: Has made it, and is in process of losing it
Moderate: Fence straddler
Modest, well-kept home: Cockroaches are all dead
Mogul: Has made it, and I'm doing a hatchet job
Never: No clips about it in Daily Astorian files
Outspoken: Rude
Petite: Emaciated
Plucky: Someone who is ambulatory AND very, very young, old, or short
Political Action Committee contribution: Bribe
Prestigious: Indoor plumbing
Progressive: Left-wing idiot
Rarely interviewed: Promoting something right now
Recently: Lost the press release
Reportedly: Stole this bit of information
Savagely murdered: Murdered
Scandal-plagued: Guilty
Scrappy: Runt
Screen Legend: I am too young to remember his/her movies
Self-styled: Phony
Shocking revelation: Leaked on a slow news day
Socialite: Woman without job who owns a home between 8th and 28th Street, on the river side with a view
Source who spoke on condition of anonymity: Publicist
Street-wise: Hasn't been hit by a bus (so far)
Strident: Rude
Stunned: Couldn't give a decent quote
Superstar: Has a publicist and an agent
Tearful: May have been crying
Teen idol: I am too old to have heard of him
Temblor: I have a thesaurus
Troubled youth: He once lit something on fire, or Mayor's son
Unclear, uncertain, unknown at press time: No one will tell us
Venerable: Should be dead but isn't
War-torn: I can't find it on a map
Weeping: Tear spotted in one eye
So, do I get the job?
Sample Cub Reporter News Writing Skills
What I write: What I mean
According to published reports: I got scooped by The Oregonian
Activist: Will talk to press
Allegedly: He did it but Josh can't prove it in court
Beloved: Someone who's been around so long no one can stand them anymore (e.g., Jerry Lewis)
With News Wire Services: No original writing
Celebrity: Someone that has a publicist
Choked up: Definitely could have been crying
Confirmed bachelor: See "Flamboyant"
Conflagration: A fire in the first paragraph, a blaze in the second and an inferno in the third.
Controversial: He did something bad but I'm not sure what
Couldn't be reached for comment: Didn't return call by 5 PM
Dapper: Hasn't bought new clothes in 20 years
Diminutive: Under 5 feet tall
Effervescent: Won't shut up
Elite: See "prestigious"
Embattled: He should quit
Entrepreneur: Hasn't made it yet, but I'm doing a nice story about her
Exclusive neighborhood/school/club: I can't get in
Exclusive: No one else returned my calls
Family Values: Right-wing idiot
Feisty: Short, old female
Flamboyant: Homosexual
Gentleman bandit: He wore nice shoes
Good Samaritan: Too stupid to run away
Guru: See "Self-styled"
Hero cop: Died
Hero firefighter: Put out a fire
High-brow: Boring
Highly placed source: One who would talk
Hot button issue: Only Stever Forrester cares about it
Informed source: Reads The Daily Astorian
Innocent bystander: Too slow to run away
Intensely private: Not promoting anything right now
Investigating: Waiting for someone to drop a dime
Knowledgeable observer: Me
Knowledgeable observers: Me and the person at the next desk
Legendary: About to die
Long-time companion: They had sex once
Mega-mogul: Has made it, and is in process of losing it
Moderate: Fence straddler
Modest, well-kept home: Cockroaches are all dead
Mogul: Has made it, and I'm doing a hatchet job
Never: No clips about it in Daily Astorian files
Outspoken: Rude
Petite: Emaciated
Plucky: Someone who is ambulatory AND very, very young, old, or short
Political Action Committee contribution: Bribe
Prestigious: Indoor plumbing
Progressive: Left-wing idiot
Rarely interviewed: Promoting something right now
Recently: Lost the press release
Reportedly: Stole this bit of information
Savagely murdered: Murdered
Scandal-plagued: Guilty
Scrappy: Runt
Screen Legend: I am too young to remember his/her movies
Self-styled: Phony
Shocking revelation: Leaked on a slow news day
Socialite: Woman without job who owns a home between 8th and 28th Street, on the river side with a view
Source who spoke on condition of anonymity: Publicist
Street-wise: Hasn't been hit by a bus (so far)
Strident: Rude
Stunned: Couldn't give a decent quote
Superstar: Has a publicist and an agent
Tearful: May have been crying
Teen idol: I am too old to have heard of him
Temblor: I have a thesaurus
Troubled youth: He once lit something on fire, or Mayor's son
Unclear, uncertain, unknown at press time: No one will tell us
Venerable: Should be dead but isn't
War-torn: I can't find it on a map
Weeping: Tear spotted in one eye
So, do I get the job?
posted by Kitty O'Keefe at 5:57 AM
1 Comments:
Somehow Major Parcelle had got himself to a forward staging area..a great stinking bunker from
which trenches ran out. He
was on the moon, no longer
in France, except that the
heaps and piles all round
were wet and stank. In the
bunker a colours sergeant
led him back to his Colonel
and along the tunnel, the
major's eyes smarted from
an especial level of odor
and he bumped something on
the earth wall. The colours
sergeant turned his electric torch on it and
barked an empty laugh: "Say
hullo to Fritz, Padre..see
the square hobnails on the
bootsole? Now here.." he
turned the torch to the
other wall and lower "we
have Pierre, his hobnails
are smaller, round and on a hightop shoe with wrapped
leggings..".
The colonel was talking
upon two electric cradle telephones. He let a look of great sadness and wearyness and resigned disappointment cross his face at the sight of Major
Parcelle. "Good god! Another ninny! What in blue bloody blazes do you want up here, Padre? And
make it very fast, won't
you? I've got a reports
pattern here I'm working
from the outer covert observation posts.." to the sergeant "..sector eight's huns are bustling
about..point five listening says heavy trucks, munitions, likely. We might be for it..".
"Oh. Shit," said colour
sergeant flatly.
They let him go, as much to get rid of him, and quickly, he felt. The colours sergeant aimed him into a trench. "Listen to me!" he said, "it's worth your life, you see? Your head must always be below the lip, always! Safest is walk in a crouch. 400yards out, look for a notice board: skull and bones and HANDS AND KNEES ONLY. If you can crawl past that, you'll find them..12th Wessex Fusiliers..if they ain't gone west on us, poor devils. A raised redoubt is the best for observing but they never last, you see, since what sticks up gets shelled sooner or later? You get it, Padre? Only a matter of time."
He made it through the hands and knees part and heard voices round a turn so he opened his valise and pulled on the red pantaloons over his mufti legs and the red white- trimmed coat and the cowl- like hat. He took the mouse out of his hat, which he placed in the open valise, and let him scurry from hand to head where he took up his station in the folded white trim. Absently the major stood to stretch and the mouse shrieked "Down!!" and with knees weak and bowels gone all to water Father Christmas dropped and just in front of him on the other side of the trench two sputs of mud appeared.
There were seven fusiliers left. The first one who saw Major Parcelle smiled and called out, "Hai, lads, it's fucking Father Christmas! What'cher got for us, wittles 'n that? Packet 'a ciggies er summat?" The major stepped forward, "I..I do have some Sweet Caporals..Happy Christmas, lads!"
It was a heavy. The ones that say, descending, WHYOHWHYOHWHYOHWHYOH!!!!
like an angry nun shouting right in your ear. Father Christmas went up and the mouse went up and the seven remaining fusiliers.
The Dudgeon House Resident and his clock mouse felt the great silence beyond the physical. They parked the
'93 Bentley Saloon and the Resident walked to the entry of the Douaumont Ossuary, the mouse in his tweed breast pocket behind the handkerchief. The one-armed frenchman took the entry fee and just before they passed in to the central atrium, he solemnly brought his remaining forefinger to his closed lips. His mouth and the finger made a cross.
From the central tower like a great gothic artillery shell, the two wings stretched out, windowed embrasure after embrasure filled with jumbled bones behind thick glass. The leaflet said "..and here lie the unidentified remains of more than one hundred and thirty thousand french, german, british, american and allied soldiers who died in the battle of Verdun from February 1916 to December 1916..". The mouse whispered to the Resident, "Embrasure Quatorze I think it will be!...". And they walked along to it and bent down together in the soft gold light and, sure enough, down in the corner where glass met stone..under most of a pelvis..was a bonedusty scrap of cheap red cotton cloth with a bit of cotton fur trim on it and right beside, the delicate rib cage of a mouse.
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