What my mother believed about cooking is that if you worked hard and prospered, someone else would do it for you.
– Nora Ephron

I was hungry.

It was nearing 6 on a recent Tuesday evening. Having just walked in the door from work, I stood in my narrow kitchen, pacing back and forth from my empty cupboards to my too-spacious refrigerator, searching for something to eat. I hadn’t eaten since lunch, and my stomach was growling something fierce.

I eyed the shelves of condiments chilling inside: ketchup; whipped cream; soy sauce; spicy mustard; grape jelly; a half-empty plastic pitcher of cranberry juice; the nearly empty gallon of one-percent milk way past its expiration date; three sticks of butter; an opened package of bacon.

My cupboards didn’t prove much more promising: a few near-empty boxes of cereal; a lonely box of macaroni and cheese; a couple cans of cream of mushroom soup; a brownie mix; olive oil; garlic salt and other sorted spices I can’t recall purchasing or ever using.

The picture was bleak enough, for sure. But rather than agonize over my predicament any longer, I settled on a recently cooked piece of corn-on-the-cob, which I slathered with butter and salt, and quickly devoured on my back porch.

I received corn skewers as a housewarming gift years ago, but never opened them until this night. It was exciting – like Christmas morning – finally putting to use a kitchen accessory that sat untouched for so long.

That was dinner. No main course. No additional side dishes. Not even a beverage. Merely an ear of corn.

But I topped dinner the next night, when I ate a chocolate brownie and a glass of milk. (Now that’s what I call a balanced meal: sugar, carbs and calcium.)

You may laugh at my food situation. I certainly do, especially because this Tuesday evening occurrence wasn’t anything new. Since moving into my home more than six year ago, I still haven’t mastered the art of cooking. I can warm up foods, reheat leftovers, nuke takeout with the best of ‘em. But when it comes to preparing a meal from scratch – a meal that doesn’t include a frozen TV dinner, noodles and a pack of powdered cheese – I’m lost.

“Just cook something,” people say. “It’s not that hard.”

“It is that hard,” I say, “because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

Years ago a friend sent me a copy of The Four Ingredient Cookbook by Linda Coffee and Emily Cale. (Clearly a gentle suggestion to ditch the pre-packaged, frozen meals that sustain me.)

The hardbound book boasts more than 700 recipes that contain just four ingredients. It’s targeted, as an inside page suggests, at “busy people everywhere!” I may be busy, but that’s no excuse for not being able to prepare a meal. I think the idea for this book is a compilation of recipes to make when kitchen cupboards are bare, when only four ingredients on hand can make a meal and when someone’s “can do” spirit kicks into gear.

A quick flip through the book, however, showed me I don’t have 90 percent of the ingredients in these recipes. That depressed me.

Here’s one that looks good: chicken noodle casserole. The four ingredients: egg noodles, cream of mushroom soup, chicken legs and paprika. Looks good, but I don’t have those the majority of those four ingredients. The only chicken legs I ever purchased were presented in a cardboard bucket labeled KFC. And paprika? I don’t know how it tastes, so why would I even consider adding it to a recipe?

Family and friends know the plight I face when it comes to food. Some have said my grocery lists are often more humorous than my attempted meals. Before shopping, I make the feeble attempt at drafting a list, something my mom is so very good at doing. Making a list ensures you buy the right items. Making a list ensures you don’t buy too much. Making a list ensures you don’t get distracted by all the snack and dessert items on sale, the new products waiting to be plucked from store shelves.

When I put pen to paper, I am clueless what to write, so I jot down cereal, yogurt, milk, cookies, Wheat Thins, canned fruit, canned vegetables, TV dinners, soup. So many times, I’m tempted just to simply scrawl “FOOD” in large letters, a printed exclamation of my dietary frustrations.

I’ve learned, thanks to the help of friends, that my problem starts not at the grocery store, but at home. Grocery lists, I’ve come to find out, are born out of things called recipes. When one has recipes, one has their grocery list.

That’s amazing! It’s so simple! It makes such perfect sense.

But I can’t cook. I never learned, never bothered to learn. It just didn’t interest me. An hour or two before dinner, as my mom prepared the evening meal in our kitchen, my younger sister would hang around, offer to help, ask questions. She inquired about poaching methods, oven temperatures, seasonings, browning techniques.

My nose would be stuck in a book, or I’d be working on my Macintosh. My only thoughts pre-dinner were post-dinner: dessert.

I don’t recall taking any cooking or home-ec classes in high school. I took a Science of Foods class in college, but squeaked out of there with a D+. It was an omen of things to come.

Looking at my past relationships also shows a varied and enviable life of meals. My first boyfriend introduced me to flavored yogurt and granola bars. He was an I.T. guru and graphic designer who preferred working overnights and ordering take-out. We feasted on simple foods at home, somewhat nicer meals when dining out. As such, I wasn’t encouraged or required to learn my way around the kitchen.

My second boyfriend was an outstanding chef and even took culinary classes at a local college. The first meal he ever prepared me included delectable vegetables with olive oil and garlic, along with tender chicken breast. His meals were truly homemade and lovingly created, each bite more savory than the previous. He introduced me to couscous and polenta, fine wine and even lattes.

I coveted his food so much that – and I swear on my Macintosh at this story’s truth – I even ate his leftovers after they had accidentally fell to the ground. I packed up the tender vegetables for lunch at my weekend job. While walking across the parking lot from the office where our microwave sat to my desk in another office, I dropped the open Tupperware of warmed vegetables to the Astroturf below my feet. It wasn’t more than a few seconds that the vegetables sat on the ground before I scooped them up and prayed no one was looking.

On Sunday evenings, as we lounged in front of the television and geared up for another work week, we often brought home fried chicken dinners from Bag ‘N Save, a locally owned grocery store in Omaha. There’s nothing flashy about Bag ‘N Save, but their fried chicken truly takes the title of Best Fried Chicken in Omaha.

I ate well during our relationship and have the photos to prove it, both of his meals and my chubby face, as I gained close to 15 pounds. But relationships ended as they often do, and I quickly returned to an eternally empty kitchen filled with more snack foods than core ingredients for dinner.

Shortly after we began dating, my current boyfriend revealed his kitchen skills. He’s a master at the basics that stick to your ribs and taste even better the next day: lasagna, chicken enchiladas, corn casserole, green bean casserole. And don’t even get me started on his hamburgers, prepared with just the right sprinkle of brown sugar and charred to the perfect texture on our grill. He introduced me to Watermelons at the Anchor Inn and the peculiar and often exhilarating results of mixing vodka with Red Bull.

And, bless his heart, he knows I’m clueless in the kitchen and even more so at the grocery store. When I announce I’m off to the store, he reminds me, “Buy food. Don’t just buy cookies and cake mixes.”

God love him. So long as I pick up the proper ingredients, he prepares us a fantastic meal.

We have an agreement in our home: if he does the cooking, I do the cleaning. It’s an ideal balance. I can’t cook but rather enjoy tidying up and putting away clean dishes. So long as my belly is full (and I have no part in preparing the meal), I’m happy.

# # #

America Online is like the cockroach left after the nuclear bomb hits. They know how to survive.
– Jan Horsfall, vice president of marketing for Lycos Inc.

I still feel the goosebumps rippling across my flesh while hearing that beautiful, scratchy noise. The images that soon appeared were simply too much take. I inhaled the sites and sounds before me, the adventure that lay just seconds away (sometimes minutes, on busier days).

For the first time in my life, I launched onto the Information Superhighway in the comfort of my mom’s basement via a telephone modem and an overpriced piece of technology.

And, good God, in 1992: it was beautiful.

The computer at my fingertips was a 166MhZ Gateway desktop machine, complete with the company’s signature cow-themed mouse pad. Atop our inexpensive desk sat a CRT monitor that, if pushed, could quickly and rather cleanly kill a toddler, or severely injure a kindergartener.

The two-button mouse that made Internet exploration possible was born from the same uninspiring and unimaginative beige as the computer, its rollerball hidden underneath and quite susceptible to collecting dust and crumbs like an old man hordes pennies: slowly, deliberately and carefully.

Our family’s ISP at the time was the overpriced and overly clunky America Online. I couldn’t tell you what version of AOL our Gateway powerhouse ran, but I clearly recall the installation CD looking absolutely atrocious. Flame-like spikes and shards of abhorrent red and orange with yellow splashed across the shiny silver surface was AOL’s approved design to share with the masses. Back in those days we believed fire equaled power and speed, and we expected a parallel experience while online.

An Internet provider with “America” in its title must be magnanimous and true, right?

Selecting my America Online username was a task I approached with equal amounts of glee and trepidation. My username would not only be how my pre-teen school friends communicated with me using America Online’s addictive chat application, Instant Messenger; but it would also serve as the first half of my email address. My very first email address and one, I believed at the time, would be my sole email address for life.

I needed a name to show I was cool (which I wasn’t) and hip (which I wished I was) and older (which was impossible at the time, as I was a bespectacled, pimpled 13-year-old girl with hairy legs, a bony frame and no alluring breasts of which to speak).

My delay selecting a username was ticking away precious moments on the Internet, making initial ideas no longer an option as they were snatched up by much cooler kids than I.

I wracked my brain for countless minutes until I landed on the perfect username.

“From this day forth,” I thought to myself, pushing up my much-too-large glasses and attempting to smooth the frizz in my out-of-control curly hair, “I shall be called Poot78.”

The origin of my spanking new pseudonym was two-fold. What I lacked in cool I most certainly made up for in intellect and razor-sharp wit.

The “Poot” came from a logo-ed sweatshirt I ordered from a catalog months earlier. The purchase was a feeble attempt to up my Cool Factor, as the navy blue, zip-up jacket had the word “Poot!” embroidered on the left breast. I had zero knowledge about the brand, the logo or even the company behind my new piece of outerwear. All I knew is that it was one of the less expensive articles of clothing I lusted after in a young teen’s catalog called Delia’s. (The “78” merely signified the year of my birth.)

The clothes, accessories and home furnishings that Delia’s peddled across its glossy pages were made of crazy colors, bold prints, cheap fabrics and expensive prices. The girls modeling the fashions were those whose friendship I coveted but knew – deep down – would never obtain. They were too much of everything I was not: too much lip gloss, too much smooth and shiny hair, too much clear skin, too straight of teeth.

But my AOL username could easily feign such status – couldn’t it?

Sadly, in 1992 and the few years following, it could not. I found myself in nerdy chatrooms talking about computers, Nintendo, cartoons and breakfast cereals. The cooler kids from my school and whom I heard about online were discussing alcohol-induced sexual escapades in parents’ rec rooms. I simply could not compete and was unable to feign knowledge of phrases such as “third base,” “hand job” or “Boone’s Farm.”

There was the experience of learning the secret language of utterly pointless acronyms other kids were using while online. I tried pushing myself into a circle where I continually remained on the lonely perimeter, standing atop my tiptoes and hoping to peek at the party going on inside.

I floated to the nether regions of America Online. In a place and time before Facebook and Twitter, one really had to work hard at creating their online identity. That creation had countless false starts in online chatrooms. Once the window closed at the conversation disappeared, users (and myself) were forced to start over the next time they logged in and heard AOL’s signature phrase: “You’ve got mail.” But in most cases, it was primarily spam.

# # #

My realization of Big Omaha’s impact surfaced on a cool Thursday afternoon over two Turtle Lattes and a breezy conversation about writing, six miles west of where it all took place one week prior.

At a local coffee shop, a soon-to-be college graduate and local freelance writer picked my brain about writing opportunities and life after the diploma. As we discussed her dilemma of suggested paths to take, I recognized and reminisced her current position and potential direction.

“Do whatever it takes to keep writing,” I told her, surprised initially at the passion in my voice. “If writing is what you want, go after it. Do not settle. If this means working a part-time job or two, do it. It will be worth it in the long run. Trust me.”

Words I’ve offered to other young writers in similar situations differed than these. In the past I suggested they try other types of work, considering that life may change course and take them away, albeit temporarily, from writing.

“Just know that it may not turn out as you once hoped or planned,” I’ve said. “Be open to changing your wants.”

I look at those words now and find myself quite embarrassed.

Since attending the Big Omaha conference, my thought processes on work and passion and writing and, simply, life have turned in a dramatically new direction.

My mind – like it hasn’t in years – now hums continuously with essay ideas and business possibilities.

I am awake earlier in the morning and later into the night brainstorming away. My thoughts are like plastic Bingo balls floating and suspended in a bubble of warm air, twirling away until plucked lovingly – one by one – and transformed into something magical, meaningful and long-lasting.

Newly emboldened efforts with my writing surprise me. Granted, only a week has passed since the conference; yet, I have found deep wells of courage within my writer’s soul, now willing to bare more and speak the truth like never before.

So I went to Big Omaha and not only got the T-shirt, but a head full of ideas and a fountain of potential I didn’t know was there.

# # #

I can’t believe how real life never lets you down.
I can’t understand why anyone would write fiction
when what actually happens is so amazing.
– Nora Ephron

They were pink cigars

Like an unexpected and unwelcome delivery of cries and screams, my sister is born. I am four years old in pre-school and presented with a box of pink bubblegum “cigars” to share with my fellow classmates. My mother affixes a metal button to my Strawberry Shortcake T-shirt of the “I’m a Big Sister” variety to wear at school.

A baby is now living with my mom, my dad and me. I am not amused.

Thank you for calling Jobs, Inc.

Around eight or nine years old, while my female classmates play house or school, I play office. My bedroom is transformed into a modest, low rent workspace with Berber carpeting, crayon scribbles on the walls, and horribly bad lighting. OSHA would most certainly not approve A tiny table becomes my desk. Paper, scissors, and pens lifted from our kitchen drawer serve as office supplies. An antique black rotary-dial phone becomes the sole connection to my client base (even though the phone lacks a dial tone and a cord).

“Thank you for calling Jobs, Inc.,” I say into the silent phone. “We help people find jobs.”

My work is simple: finding jobs for imaginary customers.

But my dolls and stuffed animals are put to good use; they become my secretaries.

The scar is still there

My sister, younger than me by nearly five years, chases me across our driveway with a running garden hose. The icy water sprays forth a powerful stream intended to do great harm, soaking me to the bone. I am upset, a bit of a “Miss Priss,” and don’t like getting dirty – or wet, for that matter.

Clumsiness claims my balance, sending me falling on a rusty grate. The result is a bloody gash, a blood-curdling scream, followed by a scar I wear well into my 30s.

But I get revenge on my sister years later: I slam her leg in a car door.

“Serves you right,” I say to myself.

I will never be able to cook

My mom purchases a “one-step,” oversized chocolate chip cookie from the grocery store. But rather than simply remove the cardboard from the aluminum pan, I remove the flat circle of cookie dough and place it directly on the oven grates, as if preparing a frozen pizza.

The cookie dough is burning as a thick gray plume of smoke rises from the oven door.

I now have a mess on my hands, the charred sticky mess like freshly poured asphalt steaming on a scorching summer afternoon. I will never be able to cook.

You’ve become a woman

In seventh grade I wear my first bra, and think such a change is coming much too fast.

Defying the onset of womanhood, I outright refuse to shave my legs. The dark hair on my legs grows and grows, and the kids in my Catholic school class tease and tease. I could care less.

By freshman year of high school, I have discovered just how nice my legs look when clean shaven. I borrow my mom’s razor, shaving cream, and never look back.

Writing is what I’m supposed to do, but boys still won’t like me

It is my senior year of high school. While selling advertising for my student newspaper, I develop the idea to study a generic form of “business” in college. A classmate doesn’t turn in an article for the next issue and I’m asked to fill in.

I write the article. The process of putting thoughts to paper and telling a story enchants me.

It becomes love at first write.

The next day I travel to the college registrar and change my major from business to journalism, floating on air while walking through the sun-soaked campus.

Senior prom grows near. Without a date and zero prospects, I commandeer space in our student newspaper to pen a column called “Nice Girls are Often Overlooked.” I end the column with a request for a date and later learn of my nomination to prom court.

I select a flowing gown from JC Penney, get my hair done, and smile while wearing the cheap, sparkly crown. I’m not named Prom Queen, but am still pleased with the outcome: people have read my column.

Writing is what I’m supposed to do, and boys still won’t like me … maybe

Within months of my freshman year of college I join the student newspaper. My very first story is on the new student directors of the marching band.

The story makes the front page, and I find myself literally in a state of rapture. Cloud 9 becomes home and feels quite comfortable.

While maintaining a mediocre grade point average, I spend an unhealthy number of hours working at the newspaper. I write five, six stories per issue, working my way up from staff writer, to news editor and, the following year, editor in chief.

The newspaper’s I.T. guy becomes a close friend. Long hours and late-night production certainly don’t hinder a blossoming first love.

“But you have a girlfriend,” I say, convinced the relationship will go nowhere.

Yet we keep our young romance a secret, until he leaves his girlfriend and our relationship is out in the open. The cat is flung from the proverbial bag when his shoes and wallet are left in the photographer’s darkroom one night.

We begin dating and eventually move in together. I leave the newspaper after an exceptionally bloated two-years of work and find myself exhausted.

He just doesn’t think it’s going to work out

My college newspaper romance evolves and he later becomes my fiancé. It’s a relatively unromantic story as far as proposals go: there isn’t one. We decide to wed and travel together to a local jewelry store to purchase my engagement ring: a lovely diamond set in white gold, its sparkle and fire brilliant as a shooting star.

We purchase the ring but make a deal with the saleswoman: if my dad objects to the marriage, the ring shall be returned for a full refund, no questions asked.

He visits my dad while I wait at my mom’s house. He returns with a grin; my dad said yes.

I slip on the ring and we spend the day at a friend’s wedding. It is a gorgeous and beautiful and perfect day.

“This will be us,” I whisper to my fiancé.

Months pass. We fight. I move home. He calls me on a Thursday.

“I just don’t think this is going to work out,” he says. I plead and cry and beg him to change his mind. He does not.

The next day I am sitting in a cramped cubicle. It’s the first day of my new job at a weekly newspaper. While slumped over my desk, tears drip from my eyes. For the first time in a long time, I realize, with great panic, that I have no plan.

It still stings

A boy I am dating wants to go farther than I’d care to. I resist. He quits calling.

Weeks pass. While lying on my mom’s couch, rivers of tears seep from my eyes. The tears are slick and wet, leaving salty tracks down my cheeks. I am heartbroken from a relationship that lasted just a few weeks. I don’t feel silly from such sadness after a short amount of time.

“But it still stings,” my mom says.

I find my voice

I graduate from college in the spring and need a full-time job. A reporting job opens at a weekly newspaper in a nearby town that fall.

I am the only female on an editorial staff of five men, working late and writing a lot. I conduct lengthy interviews with my subjects and couldn’t be more proud of the articles that are written.

I meet a family who adopted twin daughters and, 18 years later are reunited with the birth mother. The article is published in three sections and it earns me a statewide writing award.

I need more green

While I love my newspaper job, I am flat broke. A weekend job soon follows, answering the phone at a business that sells mobile homes – although they like to call them trailers.

Our office is in a trailer. It’s either too hot or too cold. The walls are paper-thin and the toilet is mere feet from my desk.

Customers regularly deposit a “No. 2” on their way out and the stench is absolutely unbearable and overwhelming, akin to a restroom whose sanitary status is abhorrently questionable. The job lasts about a year, but it feels much longer than that.

Maybe I won’t be a writer after all

Unless my editor is rolled out on a gurney, I will be stuck in this job forever.

I bite my fist, clench my jaw, and venture into the world of public relations. After unsuccessful attempts at landing a job at a daily newspaper, I realize it is my only option save moving out of Omaha.

After a year of uncomfortable job interviews, I land a job at a small public relations firm. On my first day I have absolutely no idea what to do, but hope ignorance is well hidden under a new suit, praying they don’t find out.

Listen to the heart

While attending a Jayhawks concert on a Thursday night, I run into some high school friends I vaguely know and they introduce me to their cousin.

I introduce myself briefly, and later pass along my phone number for their cousin, hoping he’ll call.

A few days later, he calls.

He is a wonderful cook (which I am not) and a voracious reader (which I am).

Our relationship advances and grows.

Less than a year later, over drinks in a dark bar, he suggests we move in together. I am reluctant at first, but I say yes. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.

Months pass. My interest in the relationship dwindles and someone new occupies my wandering attention.

He senses something is wrong and, hoping to fix it, goes shopping for engagement rings. When he tells me this, my stomach sinks. Marriage isn’t what I want. My attempt to end the relationship proves unsuccessful.

The other relationship continues. He reads my email and learns the secret I kept.

He moves out the next morning. Everything is my fault.

But about the new guy

Email messages are regularly exchanged with the new guy. Our relationship has deepened far more quickly than I anticipated and I become fearful of how far I’ve fallen for him.

A thought surfaces one afternoon as I read his name in my inbox: there is no way I can continue with my life without reading these emails.

It is the first time in my life I completely surrender my heart to someone else. He is unlike anyone I have ever met and I am perplexed why our relationship works. We are complete opposites in some ways, alike in others.

Nearly three years later, I quit questioning why it works and enjoy being happy.

This is what 30 looks like … I think

I turned 30 last December. Thirty. Saying it out loud still doesn’t make it any more plausible. The phrase “young woman” no longer applies here.

Yet my driver’s license is never far from reach as bouncers and bartenders demand proof. Angry requests quickly evolve to raised eyebrows and gentle grins when they read “1978” above my photo.

Despite the occasional punch in the gut, 30 is here. I am grateful that my 20s are almost over. My 20s were rough, full of hard lessons and tough love and too many jobs and too few close friendships.

In spite of the experiences and life-altering realizations, the writing has remained. The memories would not fully exist, could not fully live and breath, if not written about years later. Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard wrote: “Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forward.”

In the documentation of those memories, a little fiction has to exist. The memories would be empty without it, and the future may not fully develop.

# # #

You must not come lightly to the blank page.
– Stephen King

It began with a blinking cursor, a blank Microsoft Word file, an empty spiral notebook, and the desire to simply do better. A touch of arrogance, however, remained the first few weeks of my Modern Familiar Essay course as I met my fellow students – undergraduate and graduate alike – and adjusted my thoughts about writing. Newspaper articles, press releases, and scholarly research papers have flowed from my fingers for years. Nonfiction and all-too-confessional essays littered my blog. “What type of essay-writing is considered both modern and familiar?” I thought to myself on more than one occasion, more often outside class than during. Paging through the textbooks and perusing the handouts provided a better understanding, but the sustaining nuggets of knowledge would come later.

Nonfiction essays and memoirs have always topped my preferred forms of recreational reading. Not until Modern Familiar Essay did I examine closely what creates an intricate and enjoyable puzzle of dialogue and description. The quote before the essay is known as the epigraph. That’s easy to write. What comes after the epigraph, however, takes time to craft and years to perfect. A keen eye now sees emails differently, sees press releases differently, and, perhaps most selfish, sees my “own” writing differently.

What matters now are clear, creative descriptions that pack a punch and leave the reader wanting more. What matters now is snappy dialogue. What matters now is listening to the male voice of my professor that urges, “Edit, edit, and edit again. Add some polish. You can do better.”

My work was often a one-draft pony, spilled and spread about the page for all to see. A care and concern exists now that, I’m embarrassed to admit, wasn’t there before. One-push publishing on the World Wide Web created a work ethic where quantity mattered more than quality. But not anymore. The need to write has not waned or waivered; the desire to write better has. I share my sentiments with those of English novelist W. Somerset Maugham: “We do not write because we want to; we write because we have to.” Modern Familiar Essay has not created a writer hungrier to write more; it created a writer hungrier to do better.

# # #

Pimping UNO, a little teaching here and there, along with graduate school coursework, makes Wendy a busy girl.

More importantly, it leaves little down time to draft meaningful essays.

To keep loyal readers “in the loop” of my latest works, I’m wrapping my arms around addresses of the electronic variety.

Care to be notified when my newest essay is published on my blog? Simply send a quick email to wendy@shaggy-money.flywheelsites.com. I’ll take care of the rest, and promise promise promise never to spam you with a link to my newest eBay auction.

# # #

In an effort to replicate Molly Gordon’s online project to document her gratuitous nature, allow me to inventory what I’m thankful for as of late.

• Honesty.
• The dictionary.
• Uninterrupted Web servers.
• The departure of winter weather.
• Fruit-flavored Mentos.
• All types of paper.
• Pilot Precise V5 Extra Fine ink pens.
• Uninhibited creativity.

# # #

As luck would have it, my boyfriend Matt and I are both quoted — in separate articles, mind you — in today’s Omaha World-Herald.

Here’s Matt’s article:
“What we are hearing: ‘Shuttin’ Detroit Down’ by John Rich”
http://www.omaha.com/index.php?u_page=1219&u_sid=10603713

And here’s mine:
“Avenue Q gimmick proves off-beat, unusual advertising grabs attention”
http://www.omaha.com/index.php?u_page=2620&u_sid=10603708

# # #

“I think we got room for 20 inches on this one. Give me a killer lead.
By the way, you got three minutes.”
–    Henry Hackett (Michael Keaton) in “The Paper” (1994)

It started with a computer disk. A turquoise, now-ancient, three-inch, plastic computer disk that contained my very first story, each word lovingly selected, each sentence carefully completed. As a new staff writer for my college newspaper, The Gateway, I was equal parts elated and fearful at my editor’s pending response. The 600-word story was on the college’s marching band, and I was overtly eager to impress the newspaper staff with my prose. With just a year of journalism experience under my belt working at my high school newspaper, I thought I knew everything I needed to know about AP Style and writing a lead that sang.

I walked into The Gateway offices that afternoon during the fall 1997 semester and was baptized immediately into the Church of Journalism and Late-Night Writing. Working with such creative and passionate people, I would later learn, made me hungry for the printed word and I would do anything I could to continue writing. A fire ignited inside me as I savored each assignment, celebrated each interview, and truly delighted in writing every story. It was as if a hunger inside me would soon be sated, akin to the feeling after a gluttonous Thanksgiving feast. You don’t always recall all the meal’s details, but you know when you are full. The feeling is unmistakable and wonderful.

A few weeks before my first article even appeared in print, I visited The Gateway’s offices to pick up an application and learn the selection of stories the editor would assign me. As I nervously attempted to appear calm and reporter-like, I took a mental inventory of the space located on the first floor of the college’s student union. The entryway was cluttered and messy, with piles upon piles of dated newspapers spilling onto every imaginable surface. Newspaper ink is no delicate substance and seemed to find its way on to tables, desks, and even walls in the form of greasy fingerprints and unidentifiable smudges. I would eventually notice on my hands, as well as the hands of fellow staffers, that the ink caked all too easily on our palms and our appendages like those belonging to children who played in the mud on a summer afternoon; or even adults who too sloppily used cooking oil when preparing a Sunday dinner at home.

A wall mounting of wooden mailboxes served as archaic communication portals between readers and the newspaper’s staff. Each aged box was labeled with a staffer’s name, usually slips of paper with handwritten first names and last names taped to the mailboxes’ chipped tongues, like open mouths waiting to be fed. I secretly imagined where my name would soon appear. Ugly, tattered couches whose aged appearances belied their supreme comfort were grouped together, all facing toward a tiny television that got poor reception. This was a college newspaper office that had seen many late nights, evident by the empty pizza boxes, candy wrappers, and soda cans that littered the room. On countless occasions the newspaper office looked like the aftermath of an outdoor concert, cluttered with indeterminate debris scattered about, but evidence enough that a good time was truly had by all. The lived-in feel here immediately put me at ease.

Using a typewriter at work the next day, I completed the newspaper’s homemade application, careful to ensure each nugget of information was accurate. I then faxed my application to the newspaper, along with a cover letter and my resume. Finally – I thought to myself as I used my index finger to dial the phone number on the fax machine’s dirty keypad – I have discovered what it is I’m supposed to be doing. I am a storyteller and a writer. I must do this.

A few weeks later, the editor in chief called to inform me he received my application and that he would pass my name on to the news editor.

“We’d love to have you write for us,” said Jonathan, the newspaper’s editor in chief. He was a philosophy major in his last semester of college, known for his crazy, unkempt hair, his messy office, and his affinity for going shoeless when working on the paper. “I’ll have one of my section editors get in touch with you soon.”

“That’s … great!” I replied, trying to sound both enthusiastic and professional. “I look forward to working with you!” Again, ending my sentence with an unnecessary exclamation point.

I could barely contain my excitement as I envisioned my name in print and the story assignments that would soon come my way. I was eager to get working on articles. Sure, this was my freshman year of college and, sure, many new experiences would be had via classroom discussions and homework. But the newspaper world excited and intrigued me. I succumbed to a geeky thrill each time I had an opportunity to use my words to craft an article that, most certainly, others would read.

And so I threw myself into the Church of Journalism and Late-Night Writing. I spent countless hours at the newspaper, working on stories and interacting with other members of our mostly college-age staff. I would head to the rear of the office, finding comfort in one of the Macintosh computers that sat clustered near a bank of large windows. As I paused while writing, I would gaze beyond the windows to the campus below, watching students of all shapes and sizes walk about. Our office (and it thrilled me to so quickly obtain such ownership of this space) was sectioned off in different pods of activity. There were the two tables of computers, where us staff writers could craft our prose. The newspaper’s publication manager and mother hen, Carol, fashioned creative nametags for the section editors, affixing them to their desk/shelf units. These desks were often cluttered with papers scattered about, and personal effects usually adorned the upper shelves: framed photographs to stacks of CDs, celebrities cut from slick magazines, even some text books. The newspaper’s editor in chief, advertising manager, and systems manager had their own offices, complete with windows and a door that locked. For a college student, having an office on your college campus was the supreme luxury. Not only did you have a place to safely stash your textbooks and other class files, but you also had 24/7 access to a space all your own. As someone who still lived at home, the space sang a siren’s song to me.

As I typed away on my stories each week, I lusted after those desks and those offices. I looked down at my fingers flying across the keyboard, silently wishing and willing each story to be my absolute best. I hoped my attention to detail and dedication to the newspaper would pay off, the number of free hours I spent inside the office a testament to my love of the printed word and my aspirations for a larger role. And it did: the next semester, I was hired as the paper’s news editor.

I often found joy in stocking up on reporter’s notepads from the newspaper’s storage closet. It was a tall, multi-shelved cabinet with double gray doors made of metal. Inside were stacks upon stacks of new notebooks, their clean, vertical pages the perfect size for the palm of my hand, the perfect color white to securely keep my notes and thoughts. I hoarded these notepads and still have an affinity for their unmistakable style today.

Although my roles at the newspaper changed, from lowly staff writer to editor in chief, my love affair with the office never weakened; it only grew stronger. When I wasn’t at the newspaper, I was thinking of the work to be done, the people with whom I would debate important journalistic topics. Within months of hanging around the office, a pride of ownership found itself inside me, and I came to love everything about the space.

The tiny kitchen area I recall fondly. Its barebones, often sparsely stocked refrigerator hummed along both day and night as we worked into pre-dawn hours every four days laying out our beloved publication. The refrigerator often smelled horrible, like sour milk gone bad, and contained far more bottles of condiments than plates or bowls of actual sustenance. Few realizations were as painful and torturous as strolling into the kitchen, in stocking feet and with an empty belly, to find only a multi-month-old bottle of ketchup and disposable containers of leftover pizza sauce that most certainly would never be eaten by anyone. Even today none of my newspaper pals can recall how an oversized jar of apple butter found its way to the fridge; yet it had. And in a hurried moment one evening I reached too quickly inside the refrigerator, sending the jar crashing to the floor, its gelatinous contents slowly oozing across the weathered and now dirty linoleum.

“T.O., what’s with this sticky shit on the floor?” yelled Chris, our photo editor. “It’s gross and you need to clean it up.”

(I adopted two nicknames during my Gateway tenure: Townley and T.O. The latter was the result of the first two letters of my last name, but to a stranger the two initials meant nothing. Regardless, I was in love with these nicknames.)

I remained silent at first, editing a story well past 1 a.m., when Chris yelled a second time about the apple butter. Then, I lied.

“I don’t know how it got there,” I said. “But it’s not important right now. I’m on deadline!”

That phrase “on deadline” quickly became a favorite of mine. I could almost always quickly brush off an unwanted question or idle conversation by breezing past the person.

“Can’t talk now. I’m on deadline!”

The truth was, I was on deadline for the entire two years I worked at The Gateway. It was exhausting work I absolutely loved.

A year later, though, at 19 years old, I was hired as the newspaper’s youngest-ever editor in chief my sophomore year. And my “new” office needed a facelift. With my dad’s help I repainted the walls the identical pale blue color, carefully covering any dirt or signs of previous management. With framed photographs and scented candles, I decorated the space to my particular taste. Posters and random artwork was hung on the walls and cereal boxes and other bad-for-you snacks filled the wooden bookshelf. I found that pesky hunger pangs surfaced in the early morning hours of Mondays and Thursdays, as the staff worked furiously to put both the paper and ourselves “to bed” at a reasonable hour.

We worked together in the newspaper’s production room on two Macintoshes with large monitors, appropriately named Woodward and Bernstein after the two Washington Post reporters who uncovered the Watergate scandal in 1972 that, two years later, led to President Nixon’s resignation. Bob Woodward described Watergate as “an immensely complicated scandal with a cast of characters as varied as a Tolstoy novel.” Perhaps that’s why journalism schools at universities across the country saw an increase in enrollment following the Watergate scandal. The excitement surrounding the historic events sent budding journalists to college classrooms, with the hopes they, too, would uncover such wrongdoing through their work.

One of my favorite aspects of my editor-in-chief office was the middle drawer that held my notebooks, pens, and any other random supplies that found a home there. Not until I moved into my office did I discover the historic significance of my desk. The wooden drawer contained handwritten notes of encouragement and advice, passed on from one editor in chief to the next. Discovering these words was like uncovering ancient hieroglyphics inside a long-hidden cave. My eyes widened when I discovered the archive, running my fingers over each message dating back more than ten years. I delighted when I discovered the sentiment intended for me.

“Wendy,” it read. “Damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead!”

The signature belonged to Christine, the editor who served the paper before me. As our editor, Christine had an unbelievable patience and an unwavering knack to prepare this 19-year-old kid for the newspaper’s top job. I forever remain grateful to Christine for the help she offered and her guidance as I moved through my two semesters as editor in chief.

The production room adjoined to the photographer’s dark room, a space that became obsolete a few years prior when digital photography replaced film. The room was cluttered and filthy and wonderful. Despite my ardent pleas to listen to alternative rock on our production nights, the stereo lived in the dark room; which meant, to my displeasure, classic rock is all we would hear. At first I hated the dated sounds, rough hooks, and confusing lyrics. But as each week passed I developed an unexpected friendship with Led Zeppelin, Lynrd Skynrd, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and Queen. To this day classic rock remains my favorite genre of music, a preference I’m certain resulted from those long nights with my newspaper pals.

Some of my best writing was born during those years at The Gateway. But there were plenty of difficult times during my tenure as editor. And there were the mistakes. Incorrect spellings were the worst and something I continually lost sleep over even after the newspaper returned from the printers. So it seemed only natural that my last newspaper as editor in chief should be perfect, without flaw and a testament to my year of leadership.

You can imagine how shocked, sickened, and deliriously amused I was when I learned a dummy headline on the sports page made it undetected in the newspaper. A story about the UNO baseball team implored readers with its sexy headline, “Baseballs Baseballs Balls That Are Hard.” My production editor at the time figured a nonsensical and irrational headline such as that would catch my attention – and it did, but not until it was much too late.

For whatever reason, I caught and changed the other sports headline he wrote, Softballs Softballs Balls That Are Soft.

I’m not sure which headline is more offensive and humorous so many years later.

The Gateway offices have since moved to another space inside the school’s student union. I’ve only visited the old home once before, and being in the office felt uncomfortable. So many of my most beloved memories lived in a space that now looked completely different and felt foreign. I occasionally drop by the newspaper’s new home, which formerly served as a small arcade. The furniture is cramped together, but the couches, television, and even fingerprints of newspaper ink still remain. And even though the staff I worked with have long since graduated and moved on to full-time jobs, aspects of their personalities can be found in the current staff – and, like the legend of the phoenix, will most likely surface in future staffs in years to come.

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While I’m no David, my reaction after having four wisdom teeth removed on Thursday could prove mildly entertaining. The voice you hear on the video is my boyfriend, Matt.

Click here to view “Wendy After The Dentist” from Wendy Townley on Vimeo.

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