Journalist’s Day

Once, I wrote an essay. A long time ago. Then I wrote another one, and another one. All of them got the highest grades in the class from my Russian language teacher (despite an F for spelling!), and were read out loud. Turned out, I had a talent.

A little later, a young lady unexpectedly came to our class and invited me to join a new journalist club. Why not, I thought. Though, to be honest, what bought me was the phrase “you will learn to communicate with other people.” Even then, for some reason, everyone told me that I had a bad character.

After a few classes at the journalist club, I decided to try myself in the field and headed to the organizer of the local rock festival to get an accreditation. Then I didn’t even know such a word. I am still amazed of my own audacity and fearlessness.

This is how I ended up with my first reportage. Needless to say, they got me wasted. It was fun. Later on, in the depth of the night, I had been working hard for several hours to understand by morning - my first article was ready.

Proudly putting my handwritten masterpiece in a sheet protector, still in an uplifted “no guts, no glory mood,” I headed to the local newspaper, stormed into the first office on my way with a sacred sign on the door reading either editor or journalist (so “sacred” I forgot what it was, haha). An intelligent woman, neither young nor Sovietesque at all, had read my creation, and, probably, amazed at my stubbornness (I just couldn’t find another explanation), sent it for revision. As in, add personal emotions, it’s reportage, after all! Indeed. I’ve learned it all. Shame on me!

The revised version was taken with a bang. But not by the fest organizer – the truth isn’t always good for the image. Recently, finding my first article in my home archive, I got startled by how hackneyed my wording was with all this tolerance, political correctness, and “I can’t say it, they’ll be mad.” I swear, I cried over my own scribble!

More was to come. New reportages, articles, and even interviews. Then, radio. Then, television. News agency and newspaper. Then, stories. And finally the book. My favorite and so far the only one. About cars. An encyclopedia. I still can’t believe I managed to create something so grandiose. Of course, this wouldn’t happen if it wasn’t for my friend who helped me with timekeeping and meeting deadlines – they’ve never been my strong suit. And the book was published under a pseudonym because “female authors are not taken seriously by men when it comes to cars”. And the contract was royalty-free. In short, it was a continuous resistance test for my ego. But writing it was insanely interesting!

I'm not ashamed to mention that the photographs for the book are also my handiwork. I was wandering around the city, taking pictures of all kinds of cars. Many times car owners wanted to kick my ass, fearing that I was setting ground for stealing their vehicle on order (as was practiced in the 90s). Admittedly, there was one car owner in the courtyards of Kozlova street whose face was shinning with pride when I, like crazy, was shooting his beauty car from all angles. Also, another nice man, somewhere in Serebryanka, even moved his car to a more spacious area so that the pictures could come out perfect. And it also turned out that the embassy cars should not be photographed in any case. I almost got shot by the Americans. (That would have been fun!)

Then I graduated from the university and had to start providing for myself. I couldn’t ask mom and dad for the money to rent a place. Turned out, that in adulthood, especially in Belarus, you won’t earn much with writing. Especially, in journalism, that is contrastingly divided into two camps: the opposition and Lukashenstvo (pro-Lukashenko). The first ones can live off grants, but are all the times kicked out from everywhere and persecuted by the authorities, threatening with constant 15-day detentions and endless fines (in peacetime, now, of course, it’s a completely different story). The second ones are welcomed everywhere, basically, with red carpet and an orchestra, but you can’t write anything. They practically give you a ready-made material that you can “slightly adjust to your style.” Fucking censorship! After working on both sides of the barricades, I felt my first writer's block. And as a result, I chose another profession as the main one to provide for my needs.

Now I write only on the Internet and “for the drawer." Most, of course, end up “in the drawer,” or rather, at the home screen. When the space at the home screen runs out, all these Open Office files are carefully sent to the “need_to_publish” folder, which visibility setting ensures it’s kept away from prying eyes. Posting online is no less pain in the ass than on paper. All these SEO and keywords are driving me crazy, so I'm just postponing the "normal formatting" along with posting until tomorrow. Tomorrow still hasn't come...

What it’s all about? I still continue to celebrate Journalist’s Day on September 8. Nobody wishes me a happy holiday anymore. For a long while. Well, to hell with it. After all, talent develops not from external encouragement, but from internal fire. The main thing for me is not to remain a writer of one book. That would be really a pity. That aside, of course, Happy Holiday to me!