The same day that he published the first news of the possible death of Mandela in a digital newspaper (collaborate with them in South Africa) was a highlight of possible death of Charlie Sheen after an orgy of leaving you in bed with one weeks overbooking poster. Mandela was big and Sheen was a tiny box. ¿Resultado? What Sheen was the second most read news and Mandela was not even among the 25 first.
The profession of journalism is the most beautiful, at least, I have known. I worked and worked for different media and magazines and I now, in exile, a new experience, different, surprising. Correspondent work takes you away from the prominent papos sycophants who prowl the newsroom; of that market with the drool and news; of the upper bold shift decisions without reading an online article tries to impose his scandalous and screaming headline; of the promotions to "viceroy of the letters" of all those who accept that a blessed lie deserves to be a big body in bold body; to verify that the new make good to the terrible past; to see that wages go up and down depending on which one has the ability to bend the spine; of the climb that always have an excuse for not getting wet as if they had loads only and only to them demanded checkout at the supermarket; of the stars who put the signature and title, this strict order, and call the intern to fill them the rest; The Boobies, of cretins, Deliverers of cotton candy; of those who despise the advice of those who have something more than trade; Ba who stay up late writing, until they see it is night in the principal's office and run through the halls to the elevator tropezarle; of those who admire the amount of hours over the quality of the words; of pats on the shoulder when your subject is shaken by the social gatherings; of the miserable than ever tremble at the keyboard ...
There are stories to tell, to invent, to seek and to sell. That's the fucking, interesting to do thousands of kilometers South Africa. Sell, without euphemisms.
I walked away from all that to leave Spain (and lots of good people and friends, the vast majority of people that I have met in each of the means that have worked or collaborated, unfortunately, some are kind cornered under the crime suspect not take dictation), and I started working with this new venture for me, in a small drafting 40 square meters, my house, where the only noise you hear is when I plug the machine that heats water to brew coffee. Not once I have the pressures of a salary nor. There are stories to tell, to invent, to seek and to sell. That's the fucking, interesting to do thousands of kilometers South Africa. Sell, without euphemisms.
But, in that wonderful solitude, in which fortunately not write about a country in which veranee the nephew of a CEO who ask you count back here dawns and two p.m., I sometimes feel the emptiness in my writing as a slab. Yesterday, eg, published that Bishop Desmond Tutu harshly criticized the ANC government and rampant corruption (certainly news to give). Would I have posted something also if the good of Tutu had said that the rulers are so honored that take thermos coffee in the office? Would you have offered? Guess not, I guess the good sells less, perhaps, because although we like flagellate ourselves with our miseries, assumes that it is normal that things go smoothly. I can not imagine sending an email and offering a song whose title is "Today no one has died in South Africa", which condemns them to information, which I command, where you will always have more dead than alive. In fact, so far all the issues have commanded the most stuck was "The night shift ghost terrorizes a hospital". It was the third most watched news of the weekend. No dead, but had morbid.
Pretty and fucked our profession in that it is often easier to point to the other as guilty than navel-gazing. The correspondent is true that takes you away from the others to leave you alone. Now there is only one that flatter papo, the ugliest when grown, mine. As, to look for Charlie Sheen African orgies or expect to give Mandela by taking a fling at 90. Luckily, from this earth and in this medium, who decides to pay even for information of interest to the least, I published the words of Tutu, the infirmities of Mandela and ghosts that terrorize hospitals, that of which abound in the newsroom and I am just that sometimes scares me in the mirror.
PD. Seven years ago today, I had to cover 11-M together with an excellent group of professionals. We Journalism, much, for days, with stomach churning. A huge hug to all those who suffered the misfortune of being involved in the attacks and great colleagues and bosses with whom I had the fortune to work in those hard times. The most important thing I've learned in this job I learned with them. One of them share this adventure with me. His shadow is next to mine, in the photo above, over the waters of the Nile, when we were losing by Uganda dreaming of doing journalism you always dream.
