In defence of my craft

It is cliché to say that we are in the middle of a sea change in the way that journalism functions and delivers its message. Papers are shutting down, new technologies are changing the media landscape and everywhere journalists are running scared. Everything is transforming and we have no idea what the end product will look like.
Amidst the doom and gloom, however, there is something interesting taking place, even if the average consumer of information, or writer, doesn’t realize it: There is a rebirth in the understanding that we, as journalists, matter.
Despite the fact that we (media writ large) are the keenest advertisers of our own demise, tucked within each woeful story is the argument that what we do can make a difference in the world — that we are important. Jaded old-timers are unknowingly joining bright-eyed recent graduates of journalism programs in the belief that we can actually change the world. This is something we are told disappears quickly after entering the maddening fray of journalism and realizing that what we write doesn’t do a goddamn thing and we might as well just be talking to each other.
Though difficult to notice, there is a new celebration of what it means to have a professional and dedicated throng of people examining what happens in our society — holding governments, people, art institutions and anyone else operating in the public eye accountable. We are the ones that speak truth to power. We are the ones that find out what is going on and report it back to the people we represent. The public — society — has always been, and will always be, our audience, our judges and our reason for existence.
I find myself now in a position where I cover the arts in Calgary. It is at once an odd fit and a perfect coming together of interests. It is not, however, the way I envisioned things. I am a political geek, always have been. My interest was piqued early by a family that actually discussed what was happening in the world. My worldview was shaped by my (sometimes) reluctant conservative father, as much as by Jello Biafra and his fellow political punk rockers, Noam Chomsky and four years at UVic in political science major.
I don’t see any difference now in the important role that I play as a public voice for culture in the city that I reluctantly love. Covering the arts here is as much a political statement as taking on the one-party rule of the Conservatives. I speak for the community and I critique it to make it better. It is simply a different view of the world, a different segment of my society — no more or less important than the direct politics that affect how it operates.
It has been a hard year for me, in addition to the trials affecting my fellow writers. Almost one year ago, the love of my life was murdered in the worst mass killing in Calgary history. A media frenzy naturally followed. Amber’s face was plastered on the front page of the paper each horrific morning when I woke. It was hard, it is hard, but it was a necessary story, including an examination of the way we treat those who are mentally unstable and the need for better care.
So, when I saw legendary spoken word poet John Giorno perform last night, his words took on a double meaning for me. At one point he kept repeating the lines “filling up what is empty, emptying what is full.” I was struck by the fact that this applies as much to the process of grief that I have been struggling with as it does to the alternate struggle of understanding what is happening to the print medium that I love. I am filling up what is empty, print is in the process of emptying what is full, and in the end everything will be topped up, but how, no one knows.
The only concrete conclusion is that we, as journalists, writers and critics are vital. There is a resurrection in the belief that we are important. We are celebrating our role by grieving over its assumed destruction. It is for this reason that we must continue to write, because the printed word isn’t going anywhere, it’s just restructuring the mechanisms for delivery. Adjust and continue to keep the powers in check, or roll over and see it all go to hell.
So while we mourn, we are reborn. There is a new enthusiasm for what we do, and why it matters. Here’s to a renewed sense of self that so many forgot. We are all wild-eyed newbies again.