We’re on deadline, and I, being the best journalist at the event, have finished my stories, so I’ve been tasked with writing a blog post.
It’s Sunday night, and I’m working with 23 other college students and advisors in a tight-quartered, 10 foot by 60 foot room with an incessant din of random editing tips. There’s something religious about the way 21 people who come from varied colleges such as community colleges, universities and some place in Colorado. (What is the University of Northern Colorado, anyway?) We come from newspapers as controversy stricken as FAU’s University Press and as large as UF’s The Independent Florida Alligator (largest in the nation).
And just when it seemed our cliché of a newsroom couldn’t get worse, our air conditioning doesn’t work right. The 80-freakin’-degree heat and sweaty humidity remind us that we’re in south Florida.
But it’s cool (pun alert) because we’ve met dozens of homeless people. We’ve learned to discern the difference between fact and schizophrenia. (By the way, we met the king of Antarctica). And we’ve sympathized with the dozens of men and women living in dorm-sized rooms.
While our teamwork can sometimes look like a newspaper version of the ever-so-fun-to-insult, split-personality, Miley Cyrus, that doesn’t mean we don’t love each other.
We even have a half-Iranian journalist and an Israeli-born journalist who seem to love each other just fine, despite what Faux News tells us.
But such love doesn’t just happen. There is a glue that keeps this haphazard “Odd Couple”-esque family of journalists together. Me.
I don’t check AP Stylebook. AP Stylebook asks me what AP style should be.
Here, at the end of the day, we’re finishing up our editing, our designing and our coffee-gulping.
I know that I’m excited for tomorrow.