Nobody Reads This Page – “No Fun Allowed”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-24)

 

 

My time in the traditional newspaper business was a learning experience like no other. This journey began in New York State where I had befriended an editor with one of our local weekly publications. She was a fan of the television show I hosted on a public access channel, as a result of an apprenticeship through a program affiliated with Cornell University. I eventually submitted written material for her approval, and one of these items ended up on the front page of the journal she helped to supervise.

 

I was hooked forever. Seeing my own words in print felt truly rewarding. I wanted more of that thrilling experience. A lot more!

 

Eventually, I wrote for a motorcycle magazine in California, via long-distance submissions. This also offered an opportunity to practice the craft and grow, as a professional wordsmith. But when I stumbled into an opportunity to labor for a local gazette in my native Ohio, the yield was much greater than simply being educated on how to create manuscripts and edit them properly. I witnessed directly how the opinion of one person, or a small cadre of individuals, could shape the editorial content of a respected icon. And steer that paper through the business of providing news with humbling authority.

 

After a regular column I had penned became quite popular for readers, my editor-in-chief gave it a prominent placement within our esteemed pages. This achievement made me glow with pride. I had worked for years to hone my skills, and develop a sense of what would be interesting to those who bought each issue. Yet when we had a meeting to discuss the official terms of payment, his response made me sit slouched in my chair, with glazed eyes. Disbelief took hold as I heard him intone a mantra that had never before tickled my ears.

 

He was a tall fellow, with a background in the military, and higher education. So his observations had the gravitas of tablets handed down from heaven.

 

“You see Rodney, writing features like those you provide is fun. We don’t pay for fun in this business. We pay for work! Having fun is an activity for leisure hours. It rests the mind and body. Like playing golf, going to the movies, swimming, or eating ice cream. If you want to earn an income, you’ve got to give us some kind of meaningful product! Go sit at the courthouse and take notes during a trial, for example. Investigate an accident. Track down details of a scandal in politics or business. Or maybe a dust-up with elements of both! Even follow high school sports teams, our readers love to hear about their children and other kids in the neighborhood competing for trophies!”

 

I felt a burst of sarcasm welling up in my gut.

 

“So, if I enjoy following athletics, would that disqualify me from covering those events for a paycheck? How would you know? What if I watched a losing team all season? Wouldn’t that absolve me of having any fun? Like watching our Cleveland Browns during an 0-16 campaign?”

 

My commander-in-print was not amused by such wild speculation.

 

“Look, I didn’t make these rules. You’ll find it’s the same at every outpost in this business. Hard content wins the gold. You have to get your hands dirty, like a mechanic or a bricklayer, or a construction worker. The breezy, lazy, easy-reading articles you hammer out on the typewriter are fun. Fun to author, fun to stick in a blank space when we need filler, and fun for subscribers to chew over when they are bored with the daily grind. But don’t expect to get rich stroking your intellect. That’s not what this business is about! We pass along facts, in between advertising and promotional flash. That’s how this institution makes a return on the owner’s investments. It’s how I get paid. It's how the staff gets paid. It’s how... umm... you would get paid if you did anything useful!”

 

My face stung with the realization that although I had helped sell our newspaper on numerous occasions, throughout the community, my contribution remained a footnote in his eyes.

 

“That is the rule? No fun allowed? I can’t crack a smile while sitting at a desk in this building? What comes next, a parking ticket or a corrective notice, like clerks get at Walmart?”

 

My keyboard boss drummed his stubby fingers on the desktop.

 

“Rodney, don’t be difficult about this situation! You’ve earned a rep with our customers as a lighthearted scholar of grand nonsense. I read your columns, and enjoy them, most of the time. You’ve got a unique perspective on things. Still, there is no market for what you do, in creative terms. It can’t be quantified in circulation numbers. I need real evidence to include you on a paysheet! Give me solid ground to stand on, and I’ll meet you there!”

 

I had difficulty breathing. My mouth turned oddly dry, and stale.

 

“No fun allowed. That’s the prime directive? I used to have a blast, sneaking sessions on my father’s Underwood portable. It sat in his home office, in our basement. I would plunk away at that message-machine, it was fully manual. My little fingers would become sore and numb. I spun all sorts of tales, usually just to file them away under my mattress. Nobody read them, ever. Except for him, if he found my bundle. He knew a lot about writing, from contributing to religious monthlies, printing church bulletins, and even having two books published.”

 

My editor smiled with the insincerity of a used-car hack.

 

“I appreciate all of that, believe me! But you’ve just proved my point. He was having fun. You were having fun. Now, you want to have fun here, with us and this weekly. I’m on board with that, you’ve already got my blessing! Don’t expect to get rich though, it won’t happen! If you came here for glory and jewels, you came for the wrong reason!”

 

I could not restrain my tongue. Words that needed to be said were ready to find release.

 

“So, what you do here isn’t fun? You don’t get a jolt out of showing up every day, and being master of this domain? You don’t feel lucky? You don’t feel privileged to live in a nation where the free press matters? And regular folk look to you as an arbiter of truth?”

 

The text titan rolled his eyes and stifled a guffaw.

 

“Rodney, you sound like a character in a college play! This is a for-profit enterprise. Everything I do, everything everybody does here, is about maximizing that potential. I am a journalist, pure and simple. But I’m also captain of a ship. I have to sail around the icebergs and keep away from the rocks on shore! It’s a job. It is work! Not fun, not a hoot, not a party. Work! That’s how I earn my keep! I would suggest that you follow my example!”

 

I left our encounter feeling strangely dubious about this career path, for the first time. But the jones for creative output was already part of my personal DNA. I could not shake it, or shirk it as a duty.

 

The adventure had to continue. Even if I was just having fun.