Better Get A Lawyer, Strike That, Call A Journalist Instead.

While researching data journalism, time and time again, I was reminded of how important it is for journalists to communicate the truth. I came across the PewResearch Journalism Project website, http://www.journalism.org/resources/principles-of-journalism/ which included in its list of nine core principles of journalism an obligation to the truth which was thus described:

            ‘Democracy depends on citizens having reliable, accurate facts put in a meaningful context. Journalism does not pursue truth in an absolute or philosophical sense, but it can–and must–pursue it in a practical sense. This “journalistic truth” is a process that begins with the professional discipline of assembling and verifying facts. Then journalists try to convey a fair and reliable account of their meaning, valid for now, subject to further investigation. Journalists should be as transparent as possible about sources and methods so audiences can make their own assessment of the information. Even in a world of expanding voices, accuracy is the foundation upon which everything else is built–context, interpretation, comment, criticism, analysis and debate. The truth, over time, emerges from this forum. As citizens encounter an ever greater flow of data, they have more need–not less–for identifiable sources dedicated to verifying that information and putting it in context.’

            In the pursuit of truth, the article went on to state that the essence of journalism is a ‘discipline of verification’ which calls for ‘a consistent method of testing information–a transparent approach to evidence–precisely so that personal and cultural biases would not undermine the accuracy of their work. The method is objective, not the journalist. Seeking out multiple witnesses, disclosing as much as possible about sources, or asking various sides for comment, all signal such standards. This discipline of verification is what separates journalism from other modes of communication, such as propaganda, fiction or entertainment. But the need for professional method is not always fully recognized or refined. While journalism has developed various techniques for determining facts, for instance, it has done less to develop a system for testing the reliability of journalistic interpretation.’

            In the light of this information, I have come to the decision (notwithstanding the last two sentences) that that if I ever am in need of legal representation where the outcome of the case depends on verifying and establishing the truth, instead of hiring a lawyer to prepare a case for the barrister, I shall avail myself of the services of a journalist. Amen.

Image sourced at http://www.capecoral.net/entrepreneur_guide/legal_structure.php

A Thimble Full of Memories

It was most interesting listening to guest speaker, Hazel Edwards, Authorpreneur. One of the things that she emphasised was the need for writers to write everyday. This was not the first time I had heard such advice. Our lecturer for Writing Short Fiction has on more than one occasion stressed the need to write on a regular basis. Hazel Edwards suggested that we should write at least half a page every day as a warm up. She gave John Steinbeck as an example. Steinbeck's habit was to write a letter to his editor as a warm up exercise. I'm not sure if he did it on a daily basis but he has written quite a few letters more than enough to fill a book, Steinbeck: A Life in Letters, by Elaine Steinbeck and Robert Wallsten (editors).

       The idea appeals, but having no editor I have decided that as my warm up exercise, I shall write about the objects in my home. Since I am an avid collector, I am confident that I have enough objects to get me through the next few years of my writing course.

       Today's objects are two thimbles (see photo). They belonged to my mother who was a dressmaker. She learnt her craft as a young girl in Greece. When she and my father migrated to Australia she brought her loom with her. There was no room for the loom in the one bedroom cottage, which was our first home, so she focused instead on sewing. We were too poor to afford a machine so everything was done by hand.

       The thimble on the right is made of brass and is around sixty years old. The one on the left is a souvenir from Perth. I have no idea how she procured it for, having arrived in Collingwood back in 1956, she never once set foot outside of Melbourne. I think most likely she found it in the Op shop across the road. My mother was very unworldly and probably had no idea that the thimble was for decoration purposes only. It brings a smile to my face when I picture her trying to use it and complaining about the stupidity of the design.

       I keep the two thimbles in the 1930s glass cabinet that was once used to display her 'good things'. The brass thimble is discoloured by a patina, which is a fancy word for a build up of grime. A few years ago I was a tempted to clean it but realised that the grime was the result of her lifetime's work. I’m glad I didn’t clean it, for now, whenever I hold the thimble, it makes me feel closer to her. 
                                                              *****
Interesting, indeed. As a warm up exercise, I think this works quite well. Thank you, Hazel Edwards.

Primed for Life

At the end of the first lesson on Publishing (Bachelor of Writing and Publishing nmit Fairfield) the class was asked to respond to the following prompt.
 ‘Choose a book (or other literary form) that has had a profound influence upon you. Discuss the book, its themes and narrative, and how it has impacted upon your life.’
 I chose Shakespeare's Sonnet 116, Let me not to the marriage of true minds..
I began my response with the following paragraph,

     'On encountering this Shakespearean sonnet in 1976, I was immediately drawn to its idealised portrayal of unconditional love.  Its sentiment flirted with my longing to fall in love; seduced me with imagery of loyalty and unwavering commitment, and then in the closing couplet, convinced me with its argument. Here was a blueprint for love. At the time I was a young romantic, caught up in images of faithful maidens and steadfast lovers and so on meeting my husband and believing us to be of true minds, I immediately applied this sonnet as a blueprint for our love. Nothing would be allowed to come between us. No obstacle would stand in our way. We would be together forever. Thus I allowed myself to be carried away on a sea of emotion refusing to ‘admit impediments’.

   Clearly I was/am an idealist. The exercise got me thinking about other books that may have played a role in developing the sentimentalist aspect of my personality. There were many. I traced them all the way back to my primary schooling. I scoured my bookshelves last night and found my copy of the Victorian Readers Fifth Book (Second Edition, 1940). Flipping through the pages I came across a selection of poetry and short stories with titles such as Pioneers, The Drover's Wife, The Fire at Ross's Farm, Romance, The Hero of the Flooded Mine, My Heart's in the Highlands...and then I stopped to read The Ballad of the Drover. I was immediately transported back in time to my Grade 5 desk at the Cromwell Primary School in Collingwood. The poem was heavy going for a nine year old. I remembered stuffing my hankie in my mouth and wiping my teardrops off the pages with my sleeve. If the words themselves hadn't reduced everyone in the class to tears then the two accompanying illustrations ensured that no one would escape the pathos of the sorry sad tale of the hapless drover and his faithful dog. Here is an excerpt.

'When flashes next the lightning,
   The flood's grey beast is blank,
And cattle dog and pack horse
   Are struggling up the bank.
But in the lonely homestead
   The girl will wait in vain-
He'll never pass the stations
   In charge of stock again.

The faithful dog a moment
   Sits panting on the bank,
And then swims through the current
   To where his master sank.
And round and round in circle
   He fights with failing strength,
Till, borne down by the waters,
   The old dog sinks at length.
And it doesn't stop there! More heart wrenching words follow, more images of the pack horse struggling onward to 'take dumb tidings home'. The poem closes with,
'But some one's eyes are saddened,
   And some one's heart still bleeds
In sorrow for the drover
   Who sleeps among the reeds'.

No wonder I am a romantic fool. I was conditioned to be so by the fifth grade reader and the four readers that proceeded it and the one that followed.
Now I understand why they call primary books 'primers'.
'nuff said.

What's in a name?

In one of those rare free moments of a student's life, I have time to prepare for next week's lecture on 'Minimalist Short Fiction.'
The idea appeals. I have already formed a notion in my head that the writing will be of great economy, something that I can whip off in a few minutes, seconds even.

I read and learn that the term was decided upon by Kim.A. Herzinger (love the name) after considering a number of suggestions, such as:
'dirty realism, pop realism, white trash-fiction, TV fiction, Diet Coke fiction, blue collar fiction, high-tech fiction' and my favourite, 'post-post modernism'.

I am not enlightened but as I continue reading, I learn that Herzinger has kindly put together a list of characteristics that include. 'oblique and elliptical'; 'affectless, recalcitrant, deadpan, laconic'. Furthermore, Minimalist mode is,'representational/hyperrealistic/superrealistic' but not, 'fabulist' and its subject matter includes 'blue-collar/working-class or white-collar/yuppie'. The list goes on. Clearly, this is only the tip of the iceberg. (That rings a bell...Ask not for whom the bell tolls...)
There is much more to this style than I realise but as I said, I only have a few spare moments so
I stop reading and decide to go ahead and just write.
My style?  I have no idea but when I come up with a label,  I'll let you know.

image sourced at:http://www.etsy.com/market/price_tag_labels

Hearing without Listening

Recently, I undertook the task of transcribing an hour-long interview. I took the time to record every thought-filler, every incomplete sentence and any verbal stumble. I did so in the pursuit of accuracy.

When it came to writing a report I was confident that I had caught the true meaning of the interviewee’s comments.  I sent a copy of the report to the interviewee and was surprised to find that I had misunderstood a number of details.

How could this have happened?

I examined the transcript and found that I had made assumptions, filled in blanks, and connected points when I shouldn’t have.

If the spoken word can be misconstrued thus, then I shudder to think of how much we misunderstand during conversation. Henceforth I shall take pains to become more attentive to what I hear and to listen with open mind as well as open ear.

image sourced at http://elixirconsulting.com.au/sorry-i-misconstrued-your-miscommunication/