Stop the presses!
One of the biggest problems in journalism is when you have a really great headline, but the article itself is lacking in content.
“Holy shit,” said my friend, who is also a reporter because she showed me the video. We’re both reporters. We’re journalists doing journalism, and not content generators commoditizing deaths for advertising money.
Shouldn’t we form some kind of angry mob?
Sure, you can draft out what others tell you to, but if your article lacks passion in the subject, you are nothing more than a drone being told what to do. I don’t like to be told where the limits of my article should be.
You become a better listener.
Women who talk about themselves are the type of women that society loves to hate, that basic bitches who write for Jezebel and Slate love to dismiss.
The reality is, we are feeding her illness with every retweet, we are not giving her the space to step away from it all and get the help she needs.
Vice doesn’t get journalism. No, not at all.
When my high school’s drama program announced the spring show, Les Miserables — one of the most beautiful and tragic broadway musicals to date — I couldn’t bring myself to audition. Aspirations were questioned. They were changing.