Last Thursday, June 4th, I put on a brightly colored skirt and matching muddy red silky jacket and yikes, stockings--heels and went alone to the Woodbury Country Club, leaving my family behind. I wasn't mommy that night or Tom's wife or that outgoing yet awkward me who wears her heart on her sleeve. I was a writer, a journalist like I always am but that night I didn't have to hide it and could talk shop with my peers. The Press Club of Long Island was granting awards for excellence in journalism in the various categories and mediums.
I was nervous and clipped my name on my jacket collar clutching my free drink ticket in my hand. This was my first awards dinner I attended as a nominee in the daily feature category for a piece I'd written for Newsday about roadside memorials. Newsday, who I read for decades. Newsday, who, as a kid, I helped Barbara Ann Crawford collect her weekly dues from all our neighbors splitting tips and mailing in the rest. Newsday, who I worked for as office gopher in the production department all through college at Hofstra in the 80s.
I milled around the crowd of Long Island's finest journalists, reading and recognizing names on tags and they, not necessarily recognizing mine. Some did. I sat with Liza Burby a long-time freelancer, editor-in-chief and now daring publisher of a parenting magazine. I chatted with Shoshanna Rubin a writer/producer of News12 who at 30 already had an Emmy award and trained me during a crazy month when I tried TV writing. Not for me.
I found a table with radio station folks that still had a few empty chairs. As I sat quietly nibbling on salad and a hard roll, alone freelancer like a giant L branded on my forehead, I looked around the room in awe. Long Island should see this. These are the people who do it every day. Who find Long Island as its best and worst and haggle over a sentence of copy whether to be read or printed. They decide what to leave in, what to leave out. They ask the tough questions, craft a story that's attention-getting, entertaining and most of all connects to the audience. These are the people who make those pain staking decisions--do I tell this? Do I exploit them? Do I need to go that far? Did I go far enough? Am I just looking for attention as an egotistical writer or am I getting out of the way to enlighten, teach, bring awareness of an otherwise obscure situation. They ask--am I upholding the truth?
I saw Pat Dolan of the Cablevision monopoly and Bob Lipper of PCLI and Andrew Strickler and the guys at the Long Island Press who haven't seceded from the union yet but somehow bound Long Island tighter together in many ways. And when Michael Martino's hulking figure stooped and blurted into the microphone we don't do it for the money, we love to do it. I saw...me.
When they called my name as 2nd place winner for a daily feature and I found my legs to stand and rise for a few seconds and heard polite clapping, in that instance--we were all one in that room. They were with me when I said to myself months ago, not good enough, it needs more, people will want to know how many deaths there have been year to date, or this sentence isn't flowing. They are with me every minute I make those decisions when all the bells and whistles go off in my head and my pulse starts to race and that little voice inside screams HOLY SHOOT--that's a story as someone complains to me about some indiscretion and I'm buzzing with names who to pitch it to. When I feel like a megaphone. Who can I tell? How can I share this? Yes, that's when they are with me. Being a writer is not lonely, it's an honor. I sunk comfortably in my seat--this is where I belong amongst my people on this side of the truth. When the coffee was finished and all awards given out and another banner year was recorded through the news media on Long Island, I clacked my heels up the stairs and into the parking lot, melding back into mommy and wife to share my award with my family. Another day of writing ahead of me, awaiting the day I'd paint my masterpiece...
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