I'd attended IRE - a conference for investigative reporters - on the heels of the shootings at Pulse in Orlando, and I found myself in New Orleans for the convention at the same time that Gay Pride was taking place in the Quarter.
Sort of a perfect confluence of events in a lot of ways.
I met a guy named Rafael, who was a bilingual reporter for The Arizona Republic, and I realized that all my work really needed was a little more time and attention.
And confidence.
So, Rafael and I spent afternoons and nights walking around New Orleans and taking in the sights and sounds and smells. There was a sort of electricity in the air the entire time and there was a promise of a little romance while we enjoyed everything that swampy hot city has to offer.
We attended workshops and met everyone who was anyone with USA Today. We learned tricks for how to become better journalists and we stood at the back of a standing-room-only auditorium to meet the Spotlight Team from The Boston Globe - the people portrayed by Michael Keaton and Rachel McAdams and a few other famous faces in the Academy Award-winning film.
I returned to Shreveport from New Orleans, IRE and Rafael brimming with ideas and zest and wanting to tell my fellow reporters at The Times everything that I'd learned and everything that we had to do to be better journalists and really work as writers who are proxies to the public.
I planned to put together a workshop of my own where I could educate everyone I worked with on all that I learned.
But it never happened.
The grueling demands of my job and expectations to do much more with much less took over and I became more of a robot.
A single print journalist in competition with multiple local television stations who are doing it all with seemingly effortlessness while I got pushed for multiple quick hits on a daily basis to have all the same information up that everyone else did - before they did, if possible - regardless of tone, scope or thorough coverage. I was meeting the demands, but I was only doing it through complete repetition. I knew I wasn't being a journalist in the sense that I'd planned, but I figured I was honing my craft and at least getting all the motions down for how to do it to the best of my ability.
Toward the end of the summer, I reached a point where I fully realized everything I was doing had become a formulaic routine.
And then the cuts came.
They happened across the board and all throughout the company.
My local daily was hit pretty hard. Some of my favorite people and cohorts were gone.
And I realized I was probably not as safe where I was as I thought I had been.
But there was something I didn't know. I had a guardian angel, and she'd been watching me.
I'd stayed in touch with Alison - sort of a writer's equivalent of a fairy godmother, if that godmother is a Jewish lady who just wants you to write well and settle down - from the moment she'd left The Times to take a position in the Pacific Northwest and I'd considered her my mentor ever since she gave me my first shot writing as a freelancer for the Luxury Living section of the Shreveport daily.
Ya know those weekly 5 Things entries of how to break the bank in a single meal or spend the most money possible on a handbag? That was my start. And it was all because Alison gave me the chance and pushed me to keep going with it.
Not only was I keeping up with Alison, but Alison was keeping up with me.
And then one night, she mentioned that a position was open with the Yakima Herald-Republic and it was something she thought I ought to apply for.
It was around the middle of October and I was in the midst of prep for Tri-State, an annual convention some of us non-drinkers hold locally. My best friend, who moved to California in April, encouraged me to apply and at least see what the position had to offer.
So, I did.
I submitted my resume and examples of a few stories. And I just gave it all up to the higher power and waited to see what would happen.
And then they asked for more stories.
And examples of real-time reporting.
And more in-depth articles.
And in November, I got the call.
A guy named Craig wanted to have a telephone conversation with me and it was expected to take around half an hour.
I was in Fayetteville with my mom for Thanksgiving, so I told him to call any time. He did just that, and the two of us stayed on the phone for much longer than planned.
It was about two hours later that Alison called to tell me that the paper wanted to fly me up to Yakima. I was there for only a few hours when I realized I hadn't been brought there to be interviewed. I was there to interview them.
I fell in love with the city almost instantly.
It is breathtakingly beautiful, diverse and has a pervasive feeling of true significance.
What's more, I realized that accepting a job with the paper would mean that I would have the opportunity to be a real journalist. To take everything I've learned so far and apply it all with different people, in a different environment and with people who will really care to help me grow as a writer and journalist.
So, Mary Lois, here I am... sitting on my couch, looking around at the last of the furniture that hasn't been bought, the open boxes that need to be sealed and the other items that still have to be packed.
Tomorrow is my last day at The Times.
Monday morning I'll be driving away from Louisiana to live outside the state - for the first time in my entire life - and to continue doing what I can to do the only thing I've ever wanted to do: writing.
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