The future of journalism has, as we all know, been on the wall for several years. In that time, I have seen one of my editors at the LA Weekly (Joe Donnelly) let go, followed several months ago by the paper's editor-in-chief, Laurie Ochoa. Many of the Weekly's columnists were also axed. Some of this can be chocked up to the paper and indeed all of Village Voice Media (which also owns the Village Voice) having been bought by New Times; the rivalry between the two companies is legendary, and there's always a let-go of old regime when a new regime tromps in. And I still have dear friends and editors the Weekly, where I am still a contributor, thus giving me the illusion that the place I have done my best work for is, if not thriving, then at least ambling along.
Earlier this year, I also saw the firing of both my editors from Portland Monthly. Last month, my editor at City Arts left under her own steam, though the sense was, the door was being held open for her. The day Gourmet magazine was shut down, I was emailed the termination memo from a friend at Bob Appetit, saying, "I had to read this three times to see whether I still had a job." I have seen dear friends, the best in the biz at what they do--Anne Thompson; the deeply brilliant Virginia Postrel--have their jobs eliminated or their contributor's contracts curtailed. Yesterday, my editor at Wired, a very nice guy and a really crack editor, was let go.
This is not to say, many of these people have not gone on to find jobs in new media. My pal Richard Rushfield was delighted to leave the LA Times and is now at Gawker; Anne Thompson continues to blog like a demon (and is, now and always, a top entertainment journalist to whom places like New Yorker go for quotes), and Virginia, in addition to contributing to the Atlantic and a gazillion other publications, co-runs the brilliant blog Deep Glamour.
And astoundingly, I am not out of work. Every time one editor leaves--because you really do write for your editors--another contacts me. After a year of not writing for Portland Monthly, I have just contributed a feature to the December issue. I've made new inroads with fabulous and smart folks at the Oregonian and have the opportunity to write for them solid local stories, and earlier this year I had a feature for Reason, an event I was so delighted by, I am blushing even now.
And yet: at least once a week, I thank my husband, profusely, for creating a business that can support us, because let me tell you: while I made a living for a dozen years as a freelancer, that ship has sailed. I watch as my friend InaraVerzemnieks, who I think the best narrative journalist at the Oregonian, takes the buy-out. I read that the New York Times is cutting another hundred jobs. Yesterday, a report commissioned by the Graduate School of Journalism concluded:
“The
days of a kind of news media paternalism or patronage that produced
journalism in the public interest, whether or not it contributed to the
bottom line, are largely gone. American society must now take some collective responsibility for supporting independent news reporting in this new environment….”
I'm not crying, and certainly, I have as much access to new writing outlets as the next journalist; I currently contribute to three sites (in addition to my own, much ignored blog). I have assignments. I am working on a book. Tonight, I will drink wine with Inara and discuss an arts and lecture series I'd like to get off the ground. It's all good.
And yet, I am wistful. I love being a journalist, a long-form journalist who goes off, sometimes for weeks, months, looking for and bringing back the stories.
Virginia told me, "Luckily, books are not dependent on advertising." Books it is.
*Within three hours of posting this, Bon Appetit announced, it was laying off six