Hi, mom. I didn't get the Chicago job.

I don't know.
I don't know.
Mom, I don't know.
I've been lying low.

They threw out the feature, it just didn't flow.
I don't really know.

I don't understand him.
I tried and I failed.
I wrote and I wrote
to little avail.
The story is stale.

Joshua's dodgy.
He's quiet and spare.
His campsite is empty,
it's vacant and bare.

No single detail, no personal clues
to help me unravel just why he would choose
to live in seclusion.
I have no conclusion.
I heroine complex was all an illusion.

I don't know.
I don't know.
But I know glory is not why I chose this career.
The reason's elusive, it's something more dear.
But I can't remember, and it doesn't matter,
so try not to sprinkle your chatter
with flattering terms of endearment.

I’m sorry... I didn’t mean it. You’re right.

I just wanted to have something to say,
like Glorida Steinham or Dorothy Day.
A good story to tell, like from Ida B. Wells.
One that was more than just whistles and bells.

Yes.
I had forgotten.
I can't believe I had forgotten. I’ll remember.

When I was 21, fresh out of college and looking for a job, I
read a collection of Washington Post features by Gene Weingarten. In the introduction, he wrote, “A feature story will never be better than pedestrian unless it can use the subject at hand to address a more universal truth.”
Truth. After I read that, I told my mom I was going to be a journalist. A storyteller. Find the truth in every story.

Weingarten wrote, “A writer has to figure out what that piece
is before she can begin to report her story. Only then can she know what questions to ask and what things to notice; only then will she see how to test her thesis and change it if it is wrong. That’s what nonfiction storytelling is about. It is not enough for you to observe and report You must also think.” Think.

Thank you.
I'm sorry.
I love you.
I know.
And I'll remember, I'll remember...
I’ll remember.