Blog 19 – ‘Process Journalism’

Tracy Kidder, born in 1945, is a Pulitzer-prizing winning author who attended Harvard and studied at the University of Iowa. He is best known for “The Soul of a New Machine,” a meticulous account of the development of Data General’s minicomputer. Other works include, “Mountains beyond Mountains,” “My Detachment,” “Home Town,” “Old Friends,” “Among Schoolchildren,” and “House.” Kidder’s latest book, “Strength in What Remains,” is about a Burundian genocide survivor and was released last year. Kidder is known for his distinctive style of research, for which he spends considerable time observing and, in the case of “The Soul of a New Machine,” producing “a more textured portrait of the development process than a purely retrospective study might.”

The introduction of “The Soul of a New Machine” starts out with a scenic description of Data General’s site location and incorporates some elements of literary journalism, such as, listing, a voice of the narrator (and some first-person point-of-view), and status details. The following excerpt from the introduction (second paragraph) serves as an excellent example of the “nonfiction novel” aspect for which Kidder is aiming: 

“A few miles north of the junction of Route 495 and the Massachusetts Turnpike, off an access road, sits a two-story brick building, surrounded by parking lots. A sign warns against leaving a car there without authority. The building itself looks like a fort. It has narrow windows, an American flag on a pole out front, a dish antenna on a latticed tower. Mounted on several corners of the roofs, and slowly turning, are little TV cameras.”

However, aside from this descriptive introduction, I found the first chapter of “The Soul of a New Machine” to be mostly informative instead of literary, with only a twist of personal insight, such as seen in the following sentence,

“The TV cameras on the roofs, the first defense against unscrupulous competitors and other sorts of spies and thieves, must comfort those who have a stake in what goes on inside. As for me, I imagined that somewhere in the building men in uniforms were watching me arrive, and I felt discouraged from walking on the grass.”

To me, these excerpts read as if Kidder is a straight-laced journalist, but aims liven up his process reporting with some literary elements. [Full disclosure, however, I was slightly bored with the topic at hand.]

Though once I started to delve into Kidder’s other works, I began to see the literary journalism that I’ve come to love this semester. For example, his book, “Among School Children” chronicles the dedication of a fifth-grade teacher in Holyoke, Massachusetts, in her effort to teach “the economically and emotionally deprived urban children in her classroom.” His work is truly immersive and from the excerpts I perused on Google books, the writing is fascinatingly descriptive and the product of a long, arduous, (and eye-opening) reporting process. Equally as enticing is Kidder’s latest book, “Strength That Remains,” in which the author recounts the story of Deo, a Burundian former medical student who becomes an American émigré, told in flashbacks. Kidder is described as writing with “an anthropologist’s eye and a novelist’s pen” and allows his readers to walk in the footsteps of one subject and “see worlds new and old afresh.”

In a certain way, process journalism – like all literary journalism – takes on the magic of combining hard fact and the personal in a way that broadens the readers’ world lens. If done well, the practice should inform and simultaneously move readers toward realization and, in some cases, compassion. Story ideas that might lend itself to this type of literary journalism might be tales of war/tragedy or expressive subjects with a unique history/story. However, Kidder makes it seem as if one could write about practically any topic, from American elementary schools to third-world countries.

The major hindrances I would foresee in this style of literary journalism would be two-fold: patience and time. Kidder’s writing takes on an almost Capote-like amount of research and immersion and a journalist would have to be truly dedicated to the subject or event to be willing to put this much time and effort into the process. I’m not sure I could tackle this style. Four months into writing my thesis and I’m already bored of the content. However, given the unique opportunity (and privilege) to be paid for writing an in-depth, immersion nonfiction novel, I am sure that my love for research and narrative would prevail.  

[Note: When reading the blog assignment, I first thought that Dr. Rodgers was referring to another “process journalism,” which is a media technique that involves telling the reader what you know (and don’t know) in practically real time. That would have made for a very different blog, indeed.]

Blog 18 - 'In Defense of Literary Journalism'

Avis Meyer’s “In Defence of Literary Journalism” seeks to pay tribute “to the insight and resolve of journalism’s literary progenitors, the essayists and ‘spectators’ of the eighteenth-century England and her American colonies.’” Meyer begins this passionate essay by pointing out that literary journalism dates back to the mid-seventeenth century, and English essayists – such as Joseph Addison and Richard Steele – bridged the gap between journalism and literature. These paths of literary journalism, he argues, “have followed a parallel course.” The current [twentieth century] American press is “grounded in the libertarian press of the seventeenth- and eighteenth century literary England.” As if to dramatize and hit home this point, Meyers states,

“The effects of such literary precepts upon the American press, as with many other facets of our society, may be traced to those British colonists who sloughed off the cloak of authoritarianism and, lodged aboard their fragile ships, scurried for the North American continent, tenacity their companion and freedom their balm.”

Meyer even goes as far as to say, “The ties that bind English literature and the American press, English teachers’ protestations to the contrary, are as firm as the rock upon which John Smith reputedly stood.” With these grand (heart-string-pulling) parallels, Meyer is seeking to both trace the roots of literary (and current) journalism and provide a kind of legitimacy. He points out with importance that eighteenth-century “critics” [note the quotes here] did not make the contemporary distinction between literature and journalism. Next, he maps the many facets of the art from Defoe to Twain to Crane to London and all the way through to the twentieth century.

Literary journalism, according to Meyer, is for “expos[ing] the flaws and scars of and for the American citizenry,” touching the readership “effectively,” and bringing to life “images and experiences.” The author states with great fervor that,

“When one rereads and compares the lead editorials of The New York Times,  columns of Walter Lippman, Harrison Salisbury, and E.B. White, a difference in passing and idiom may be apparent, but the intensity and purpose remain as constant and clear as in the philosophical essays of Oliver Goldsmith or the early ‘editorials’ of DeFoe.”

Meyer’s most to-the-point argument and defense of literary journalism is made clear in his final paragraph:

“Turning this goal into a tradition, for centuries newspapers have offered their readers a colorful, wrinkles-and-all family portrait. There is a constant moral purpose reflected in the daily writing that looks back from the pages of our past, as the literary journalists form their perceptions and direct their pens. They wrote, and write, to please their audience and thus themselves; they write, and they are read, and they write again. This, every twenty-four hours.”

In terms of why Meyer is defending literary journalism, it is clear that he is in awe of the art and practice and finds great importance in its continuance. However, more than that, Meyer is rewriting the history of journalism in a way for all of those critics and academics who tend to lump “legitimate” journalism in pile A and literary journalism in pile B. 

Blog 17 - 'A Napoleon Complex'

A half a dozen men and women gathered around a bench in the Northeast dog park. The air was crisp and cool with a hint of chimney smoke. The owners wore sweatshirts, fleece jackets and fuzzy hats layered with a fine dust from the dark corners of closets.

In the distance, a couple sat on a covered park bench. The man had his arm around the woman. They both wore dark, hooded jackets and sipped out of steaming styrofoam cups. A slice of setting sun settled on their backs as they leaned in to each other for warmth.

The dogs circled one another, sniffing, prancing and scuffling. A bull dog mix climbed up on the bench next to his owner, a petite woman in her 60s wearing glasses and a black ski cap. Slinking back onto his haunches, the dog’s hind legs stuck up at a sharp angle. A man sitting on the opposite end of the bench pretended to read a newspaper.

Occasionally, another owner would enter the park with dog in tow. The sitting bull dog’s owner chatted with another man about the cool weather. Then she spotted someone she knew heading toward the gate.

“Like, Dale’s dad over there, you can tell he’s from Alaska. A t-shirt! Are you crazy? You can tell you’re from up north. I’m surprised you even wore socks with those sandals.”

The bespeckled woman wore a general look of belonging. The owners formed a semi-circle around her as she commented on their dogs.

“Zeus! Come here, Zeus! … Wow, not even four months and already humping. … Stop it, guys! Geez, I should have worn my earplugs. Go bark somewhere else! … The smaller dogs, they’re always the meanest. It’s like they’re making up for their size. What do you call that?”

           “A Napoleon complex,” the t-shirt-laden man retorted.

A man wearing paint-splattered jeans and canvas shoes talked on a cell phone and gazed up into the tree branches with his tired, sun-lined face.

“The economy has everyone up in arms. No one trusts anyone anymore. I just don’t understand it.”

 The man wandered off to the other side of the park for privacy. His mini-Australian shepherds with brown and black speckled fur and blue eyes followed close behind.

A man and a woman stood closely, debating the morality of euthanasia.

“Apparently, if your dog destroys another animal, the county of Alachua has the right to destroy your dog. To give out the death sentence. I wasn’t aware of that before … ”

The man looked up, his adam’s apple bobbing violently as he choked on the words.

“This one’s sister cornered an old cat and killed it.  … She was just doing what dogs do – chasing cats.”

The woman cast her eyes downward. “Except this time she caught it.”

Suddenly, two men in faded navy uniforms roared by on an ATV, its wheels falling about a foot wider than the paved path parallel to the chain-linked fence. As the men rolled past, the dozen or so dogs formed a tight herd and followed along, barking manically. The men stopped near the entrance and one walked purposefully toward a metal barrel full of tied-off black and blue bags. The other man sauntered toward the gate and began to laugh at the wailing dogs. He spotted a tiny brown Chihuahua wearing a pale pink sweater with sparkling silver stripes – an early Christmas present.

“Oooohh are you tough in your pink sweater?! You’re so tough in your little pink sweater! Aren’t you tough! Ruff! Rrrrruff!”

The pack of dogs began to circle each other frantically, barking angrily at the shouting man. A beagle sat down and bayed while a pit bull mix growled throatily. The Chihuahua’s owner walked hurriedly toward his dog and scooped him up, saving him from the taunting man. His eyes were wide underneath raised eyebrows as he walked back toward the crowd near the bench.

“Well … that was weird,” one woman said. 

The uniformed man, still laughing, turned to climb back on the ATV. The dogs continued to howl long after the men were out of sight.