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People occasionally ask me what it is that I do for a living. They know I’m a journalist. They know I write for The Huffington Post. They know I work the graveyard shift from my home in New Hampshire. Still they wonder, “What’s a typical night like?”
Here’s one of the greatest things about my job: There is no typical night.
Working as a journalist on the graveyard shift is very similar to being a firefighter. Some nights you’re busy putting out fires and other nights you’re just sitting at the fire house, honing your skills, waiting for a fire to happen. The key thing is, you’re on duty when the fire breaks out. Or in my case, when news occurs.
During a typical week, I’ll cover one or two big breaking news stories. The rest of the time, I’m updating the homepage, checking wires, filing news stories/features, copyediting other people’s work, posting items to Twitter and Facebook, sending out breaking news alerts, scanning social media and competitor’s sites for interesting content, searching other sections of our site for stories that deserve more play, reading through more than 1,000 emails, coordinating content with other editors, handling any corrections that come in overnight and waiting for news to occur somewhere in the world.
Last week, however, was utterly insane.
Every single evening, a major news story broke on my shift. On Sunday, I handled the North Korean nuclear test and the United Nations’ response. Monday night saw the resignation of Pope Benedict XVI. Between the manhunt for Christopher Dorner, the former LAPD police officer accused of committing a series of shooting attacks on police officers and their families, and the State of the Union speech, Tuesday was beyond busy. On Wednesday, Paralympian Oscar Pistorius was arrested and charged with killing his girlfriend. In between all of these stories, I also penned a brief about the president doing an “exploding fist bump” with Sen. Mark Kirk (R-Ill.), and an obituary for a man who appeared on several episodes of “Storage Wars.”
I would have covered the meteor that exploded above Siberia on Thursday, except I took the night off to spend Valentine’s Day with my awesome husband. Had I been on duty, however, my entire shift would have been dedicated to covering the 1,200+ people who were injured and the massive amount of damage caused by the space rock.
Light only knows what’ll happen this week.
I’ve long thought about writing to you. Not to ask a question or to seek advice. Mostly I just wanted to thank you for providing decades of engaging reading material.
My friends have often described me as their “Dear Abby,” the one person they could call in the middle of the night and talk. Much like you, I’ve heard confessions, kept secrets, gave company to the grieving and, when requested, offered advice. Very few actually followed my advice, though these same people would frequently contact me months or years later and proffer the well-worn mea culpa: “You were right. I should have listened.” However, the gift of guidance was only the smallest service I provided. In truth, much like you, I simply tried to help.
So often when I read your column, I’d attempt to figure out how I would’ve responded to the querents were I in your shoes. Then I’d read your letter to see how closely our advice aligned. Despite our age difference, we were usually in the same time zone, though there were a few occasions when I wanted to give you 50 lashes with a wet noodle. Thankfully, whenever you realized you’d made a wrong turn and offered ill-advice, you always had the grace to pick up that noodle and flagellate yourself. Admitting you’re wrong is never easy; doing so in front of millions of people is quite commendable.
When I learned of your death, I felt a real sense of loss. You were an icon, but a quiet one. You were famous without reveling in celebrity, and you never forgot your mission, which was to help people. Like the best writers, you used your wits and talents and common sense to serve your readers; I have always appreciated and admired that.
Your daughter Jeanne published a lovely tribute in your honor this morning. At one point she described you as having “a deeply caring heart, a lively sense of humor and a deep devotion” to all of your readers. She also wrote that you “tried every day to educate, enlighten and entertain and to inspire civility and respect for others.” You succeeded marvelously, my dear, and for that I thank you.
Farewell and rest in peace, Abby. — JADE WALKER
Richard Ben Cramer, a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist who was best known for writing the 1992 book, “What It Takes: The Way to the White House,” died Jan. 7 of complications from lung cancer. He was 62.
(Source: The Huffington Post)