my life as a communicator

for my communications class we had to write a paper describing how we got involved with the world of journalism. i wrote this paper, and although it isn't completely "in scene," it was a memoir in its own way. my teacher wanted us to write about what makes us unique (so he could get to know us better) so i thought it was appropriate to tell him about my love for serial killers, cannibals, vampires and the like. i'm sorry if any of you get sick of reading about my gothic obsession, but i feel like most of what has happened in my life is a result of my strange interests. anyway, enjoy!

also, look for me on BYU TV (channel 11) every monday and wednesday at noon! i'm a reporter.

I have been a journalist my whole life—a reporter, a researcher, an interviewer, a writer. However, studying journalism never occurred to me until my last years of high school. It wasn't until then that I knew I belonged in a newsroom. In fact, the newsroom is one of the very few places I actually fit in.

Ever since I was young, I have loved strange things. As a child I would read supernatural fiction and watch gothic horror movies. When girls my age were listening to the Spice Girls, I was reading Dracula for the twenty-first time. I loved to write and make movies then show off the finished products to my parents. I loved filling myself with information and acting as a source of knowledge for my friends, but I didn't know how to apply my skills.

Growing up, I never knew exactly where I belonged. I tried drama, student government, dance and other activities. No matter where I involved myself, I always found that I had different interests than my peers. I read about cannibals and evil cult killers instead of watching the latest episode of Friends. I knew I needed to find my rightful place in the world.

When I joined the school newspaper staff my junior year of high school, I had less than high hopes. I was sure that journalism would be just another subject I would never relate to. Most of the students on the staff took the class to get an easy A. They would make up their quotes and write fake stories. I found myself working as hard as they were lazy; I interviewed countless students and did more work than most of the page editors. The next year I became editor-in-chief of the newspaper.

My senior year I was offered an internship at the local newspaper. I can still remember that first day in the newsroom. I walked into the building, greeted the receptionist and asked for Jon Mallard—my mentor. She asked me to sit down while she paged him. I sat in a blue plastic chair and listened to the sounds of phones, computers and typing all around me. News anchors were talking from televisions mounted on the walls. Everyone was busy. People were walking in between desks, printing large amounts of paper, and making copies. It was exactly how I wished the students on my small high school staff would work: seriously.

I felt small and insignificant in the busy news room. Everyone was preoccupied with their own projects and paid no attention to me. A man walked up to me and introduced himself as Jon Mallard. He led me to his work area and showed me a desk where I would be able to work.

My own desk.

More than anything else, that desk made me feel like I belonged. I thought of myself at school, reading books about serial killers and constantly writing. I certainly didn't have my own designated desk there.

Just then, Jon's cell phone rang. It was the X-Files theme song. I loved X-Files.

It was then that I knew I was a journalist. While the world outside was slowly moving along, the newsroom was hustling and I had a desk in the middle of all the action. People who shared my interests—people who loved to write and learn and watch X-Files—were all working together in one building. I could say newspaper jargon like slug or beat, and my colleagues wouldn't think of garden bugs or physical violence. For the first time in my life, I was in my rightful place.

Once I started writing I never stopped. I filled journals and notebooks with stories. I had so many ideas in my head; I knew I would explode unless I released them onto paper. Journalism was the perfect motivation to channel my writing abilities into application.

Soon, all my hard work paid off. Seeing my first story printed in the paper made me feel proud and accomplished. There it was—my name, Camille Whiteley—at the top of an article I had written. It was squished between two larger stories and looked unimportant considering mine was merely a column long. It didn't matter that my story was half the length. I didn't care it was hiding in the lower, left corner of a page that might be overlooked. All I knew was my name appeared on the page with all the other journalist's names. No one cared I was obsessed with Jack the Ripper and read The Witching Hour late into the night. I was still a member of the newspaper staff, and without me, that small column would have been blank.

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(¸.·´ (¸.·´ Camille
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