So today is the day .
As I step through the revolving doors of the dreary grey building, I have a clear purpose in mind.
Today is the day.
For the last four years I’ve worked as a journalist for Leading Edge Press, a popular printed and online news publication that is currently in its tenth year of operation.
As I walk through the building, I see a thriving workplace filled with diverse furnishings and enthusiastic employees. The inside of this building is a stark contrast to the outside.
From its perky red retro chairs, to its stark white tables, to its alien-like designed computer pods, and lime green sofas - where all news writers are encouraged to sit and find their “inner inspiration” - the whole floor screams a modern twist on the 60s era. It’s like Andy Warhol walked in and went crazy – bright colors and stenciled canvases catching your eye from almost every viewpoint.
It’s a mecca for artsy types, and that’s a large part of the reason why I love my job so much.
As a fine art graduate from NYU my two passions meld here, words meeting images in epic utilitarianism.
Leading Edge Press has published hundreds of my stories, from my humbler beginnings as the resident ‘ How To’ girl, followed by a stint of reporting on Manhattan’s most trendy hotspots, and now my most recent promotion as a more serious journalist.
My career highlights have been on the back of tough investigative journalism into how billionaire bachelor Jackson Windsor has been destroying lives through his African diamond mines. I was up to my third hard-hitting article on the handsome man when he completely disappeared off the map.
After the success of my brutal articles, I have had my pick of hard-hitting stories - whether it’s highlighting political scandals, detailing the latest breakthroughs in medicine and science, or investigating controversial foreign affairs.
That is until Hank McAllister tips the scales yet again. He often rips my feature articles into shreds and demands they be rewritten with less “emotional attachment.”
But today is the day.
Hank is a product of the “baby boomer” generation. He doesn’t believe in climate change, gay marriage, feminism or environmental groups.
“Radical hippy, left winged jargon ” he calls all of it. “ Turning the world into even more of a backward place than it already was to begin with!”
And even though he’s been a news editor for twenty odd years, he still doesn’t understand the evolution of journalism over that time, a movement that no longer shies away from uncovering the darker facts, no matter how shocking they might be.
If he wants a story on Jackson Windsor’s illegal diamond mining in Zimbabwe with forced labor and torture camps, then he should be prepared for the gritty facts, not an innocuously polished article with a few comments from the heads of mining companies swearing that nothing criminal ever happens under their jurisdiction.
After all, where’s the truth and journalism in that?
I don’t know why Hank chose to be the publishing supervisor here.
He’s nothing like the rest of us writers, and he hates the kind of stories we churn out to our readers. But he’s a brilliant editor; I need to credit him with that much.
Even if you write the crappiest and most unprintable story, once he’s finished with it and blasted you about all the things you need to change, it comes out as good as gold. When he’s not being an arrogant son of a bitch, he’s almost respectable.
I stroll into Hank’s office with my head held high, steady breaths and rehearsed speech, but as soon as I see his shiny bald head look up at me all my confidence just melts away.
Today has to be the day…
I have decided today is when I finally tell my prick boss of an editor to stick his chauvinism where the sun doesn’t shine.
“Ah, Claire!” he bellows as I walk in. “Sit! I have a new assignment for you. Scrap
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