Commentary

The following are reflections on the evolving world of journalism, my experiences in the business, and the future of storytelling.

Meet my first news director, a chain-smoking, mullet-rocking legend who continues to surprise

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April 4, 2018. Dave Carew. “Happy Birthday, Tedd! Have a great time full of mischief.”

I type the name of my first boss into Facebook’s search bar. I left Sioux City, Iowa 14 years ago, but I often think about the man who gave me my start in broadcast news. His page pops up. Tedd O’Connell. Green Bay, Wisconsin. A black-and-white photo of a newsman in a trench coat.

That’s Tedd. But Tedd’s been dead for more than a decade.

April 4, 2017. Justin Roberts. “Happy Birthday Tedd!! Hope heaven is a party that never stops!”

This seems off. Tedd wasn’t the social media type, and Facebook was in relative infancy when he fell sick years ago. But this wouldn’t be Tedd’s first surprise.

April 4, 2016. Molly Fitch. “Happy Birthday, Tedd. Hope you’re snacking on donut holes and listening to Eminem upstairs today.”

Growing up near New York, attending college near Chicago, I was unprepared for the flat skyline of Sioux City. I was less prepared for my first boss to rock a full-coiffed mullet and a raspy voice born of a thousand cigarettes.

April 4, 2015. Derek Wittenburg. “Happy birthday…..Tedanator with us all.”

For 15 years, Tedd was the Ron Burgundy of Madison, Wisconsin. He flew to Cuba for a story and met Castro. He broke major stories and won major awards. Then he took over newsrooms. A decade removed from his final time on the anchor desk, he landed in Iowa to run a fledgling third-place news station. At some point I should have wondered if Tedd viewed this job as beneath his stature and legacy. Tedd never gave us that choice.

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5 lessons from the NPPA’s Best of Photojournalism 2018 video winners

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I haven’t blogged in a few months, taking some time for a particularly busy season at work, at school, and as a dad.

But this occasion called for me to restart the engine.

Every year I pay particular attention to the winners of the NPPA’s Best of Photojournalism Video Awards. It’s a one-stop collection of some of the finest photography from some of the most prolific and talented photographers in the country. This year I set new marks personally, placing with five different stories in six different categories. But I never stop learning.

Through their work, my colleagues across the country never stop teaching.

Here are five lessons I learned from five powerful pieces of journalism and storytelling:

THE STORY: Remembering the Stains on the Sidewalk, by Jed Gamber (WBFF-TV, Baltimore)
THE LESSON: Commit at every level, not just with the camera.

I remember seeing this story when it first showed up in my Facebook newsfeed. I was blown back then and was blown back watching it again this weekend.

Jed Gamber has won a cavalcade of awards for photography in his still-young career, and he has helped build a tremendous team at WBFF-TV in Baltimore. This story shows the standard he sets.

Gamber and reporter Paul Gessler follow a still photographer who’s documenting the city’s homicides every day for a year. The camerawork is immaculate, but Gamber doesn’t stop there. He uses a projector, he stacks photographs on top of each other with a series of smash edits, and uses subtle but effective camera clicks to provide audio cues.

The whole thing is a masterpiece, pushed by a moving, meaningful message.

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I spent a week covering the aftermath of Hurricane Michael. Here’s how I coped.

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Somewhere along the back-road highways on the Florida panhandle, sometime during my third day of enduring images of destruction, I realized I needed to talk to someone.

I had been sent down three weeks after Hurricane Michael to produce a series of stories on its aftermath for my station, WXIA-TV in Atlanta. The cameras always evaporate when the attention dissipates, we thought, so we wanted to divert it back. We wanted to show the very real – and very early – stages of recovery. We wanted to remind our viewers how those in the storm’s eye now face a seemingly permanent new reality.

The first few days went as expected. I interviewed pecan farmers and walked through orchards of leveled trees. I spent a day in Georgia’s hardest-hit city, Donalsonville, where the majority of houses featured blue tarp over their roofs. I surveyed the scene in Panama City and Springfield, neighborhoods in Florida where storefronts and home fronts had been peeled off.

And I drove. A lot. 1200 miles in five days. For large swaths of those rides, I scanned a consistent diet of devastation. I saw piles of felled limbs atop sidewalks, gas stations and mom-and-pop restaurants hollowed out, and mile after mile of trees bent backwards like upside-down check marks.

On the morning of Day 3, I witnessed the worst. I never made it to Mexico Beach, the coastal community in Michael’s direct eye that had been all but flattened in a few hours. But I drove within minutes of it and saw the struggle of communities just beginning to reckon with the aftermath of a hundred-year storm. As I headed back to south Georgia, itself speckled with hard-hit towns, I began to realize how a few short days – spent largely by myself – had gradually worn me down. I struggled to envision how these areas would fully recover. I shook my head at the magnitude and spread of the damage. A few times, I held back tears.

That’s when I picked up the phone and called my parents.

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This episode of Reply All should teach us all how to tell stories

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I listen to podcasts a lot … too much, let’s go ahead and say.

According to Stitcher Smart Radio, I have listened on that app alone to nearly 3,000 hours of podcasts and more than 14,000 episodes. At the time of this writing, I carry a 54-day listening streak.

I’m a reporter in TV news, but as a consumer I choose podcasts far more. And I often think the two have little in common. Podcasts run way longer, often function as a talk show or long-form interview, and of course lack the video component that is so essential in my work. But some podcasts tell stories. Some episodes seem like extended versions of what a television reporter would produce every day.

And one particular episode – the two-part “Long Distance” by Reply All – kept me so hooked and contains so many storytelling lessons that I felt the need to dissect it, for all our benefits.

“Long Distance” premiered last year and reran as a single episode last month. I learned about it last weekend, when a friend at brunch claimed it as his favorite but wouldn’t reveal anything about it. I clicked on it that night before bed, thinking I’d listen for 15-20 minutes and then resume it the next morning. I listened to the whole thing. And I found it ripe with lessons for any storyteller, regardless of medium. Here’s my view on how the producers and reporters developed such a fascinating episode:

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Sometimes, as a new parent, you just need to bake a peach pie

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Last month I launched a documentary for WXIA-TV that involved a full week of on-air stories, online posts, and off-air promotion. It was a big week. It also came during a wild time at home, which have become more frequent as a new parent. Here’s a glimpse into a particularly moving moment, though not in the traditional sense …

***

I stand under an amber light, over an oven door, preparing to witness perfection.

There’s a pie in there. A peach pie. A Georgia peach pie. The best kind of pie. A pie I’ve made from scratch. A pie I’ve made to surprise my wife. A pie I’ve made in silence and near-darkness to not wake my six-month-old daughter.

No one asked for this. But I need it.

This week I’m a solo parent. My wife is in Los Angeles for work. Olivia is in Atlanta with me. She’s got a cold. That means I’ve got a cold. She’s sleeping through the night. I am not. I woke up at 3:30 AM yesterday and 1:30 AM today. I’ve spent the week launching a massive work project that was months in the making. I’m stressed. I’m sleepless. I feel red veins creasing my eyeballs.

But I take food seriously. And I love Georgia peaches. I inhale the pulp in 30 seconds and suck the pit for ten minutes. I buy two bags a week during their three-month season. Last Saturday marked the last sale this summer. I snagged three bags. When my wife left for L.A., I pledged to make a pie.

It seems selfless. I want my wife to open the front door, smell the scent of baked peaches and crust, and break into a smile. I want her to feel I can handle it all and still find time for a sweet gesture. But I also want to show myself. I bristle at boundaries. I feel them when we scarf dinner in five minutes before Olivia starts crying. I feel them when I fall asleep at 9:15 on the guest bed, trying to seize the Olivia’s-finally-asleep window and eat popcorn with my wife while we watch some stand-up comic on Netflix. The sacrifices seem small compared to the overwhelming gifts of parenthood. But sometimes I need to prove I’ve still got it.

Sometimes I need to bake a freaking pie.

So I did. I put Olivia to bed at 8:15 and strode toward the kitchen. I boiled the peaches, peeled their skins, and scooped their pits. I chopped them into eighths, mixed a batter, and poured it all between two rolled-out layers of would-be flaky crust. I slid the pie in the oven, rotated it after 20 minutes, lowered the temperature to 375, and rotated it one more time as the recipe instructed. Now, at 10:30, I stand over the oven, adrenaline drained, ready to wave a metaphorical middle finger to How It’s Supposed to Be.

I open the door. A steam cloud flies out, carrying the scent of sweetness. All looks golden: the caramelized sugar, the crumbly crust, and the Georgia peaches itching to bust through the slits in the top layer.

Perfection.

Then I slide on my mitts, pull out the pie, lose my grip, and watch perfection fall out of my hands and crash upside-down onto the kitchen tile.

I don’t cry, but I almost do. I don’t scream, because somehow Olivia has stayed asleep. I stand motionless, surrounded by dark, the stove light above me a spotlight of sadness.

I grab a fork. I kneel down, curl myself on the tile, and search for scoops of pie that didn’t hit the ground. Then I eat. It’s gooey, rich, delicious. It’s my middle finger to How It’s Supposed to Be, remixed to show How It Is. I consume the equivalent of a slice, then cobble enough bites to save for a slice for my wife. I call her and confess it all. I know you’re a germaphobe, I say, but perhaps you’ll make an exception for smushed perfection.

To my half-surprise, she accepts.

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The Solo Video Journalist is available for purchase. You can find it on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and the publisher’s web site.

Matt Pearl is the author of the Telling the Story blog and podcast. Feel free to comment below or e-mail Matt at matt@tellingthestoryblog.com. You can also follow Matt on Facebook and Twitter.

I just produced a documentary on income inequality. Here’s what I learned.

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As a journalist, my biggest adversary is perhaps my own cynicism.

It’s easy to lose that battle. I see the continual triumph of style over substance. I see the burnout suffered by many of my younger colleagues. I see a shrinking number of pieces that truly have an impact.

More than that, I see a far-too-frequent unwillingness to take on the mountainous issues of our time, mainly because of their mountainous-ness. How does one cover a subject, for example, like income inequality, which has been on the rise for decades but seems too widespread and abstract to truly digest?

My answer? Like this.

In my role at WXIA-TV in Atlanta, I receive the chance every few months to produce a documentary, and I often get to choose the subject. I must run it up the ladder of management, of course, and it must fit within the confines and content of our evening newscasts, but I receive much more freedom in story selection than most.

So when I returned from paternity leave earlier this year, ready to embark on a new project, I chose the topic that affects Atlanta more than any city in America.

But I didn’t know how I’d broach the subject. I reached out to several experts in the region, often over the phone but occasionally in person, and I sought potential vehicles that would allow for the necessary depth, detail, and humanity. I emerged with three concepts, wrote proposals for each, and pitched them to my bosses for their preference.

We all agreed: IN CONSTRUCTION was the one.

I had heard about a program that provides a free 20-day crash course in construction for low-income Atlantans, regardless of their background in either construction or life. Many students have a criminal record. Most rely on public transportation. Some are – or recently were – homeless. But when they graduate, they leave with entry-level construction credentials and, 95% of the time, a job with a major Atlanta construction company.

Suddenly my project wasn’t only about income inequality. It was about the challenges and pathways for those in poverty who look to rise up. And it offered a chance to view the issue through the people who live it.

I essentially embedded with a class, from Day 1 to Day 20, and selected several students who agreed to tell me their stories, warts included. Three had served prison sentences. Two were parents looking to do right by their families. All had a purpose difficult to condense or categorize.

This week, four months after I began working on the documentary, I released the finished product online. It airs three times this weekend on WXIA, and it has already received hundreds of views on YouTube and positive reaction on social media. That’s without much promotion aside from my own.

I think often about our platform as journalists and how we choose to use it. Regardless of our status in the newsroom, we all make editorial decisions from the micro (e.g. how we choose to light an interview) to the macro (e.g. how we choose to present controversial issues). I am heartened by the number of web sites and outlets that have found a winning formula for producing relevant content and finding a wide audience. We often struggle to replicate this in local TV news, but I see examples all the time that push back my cynicism and strengthen my resolve.

Sometimes that’s the biggest hill to climb. I’m proud whenever I reach the summit.

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The Solo Video Journalist is available for purchase. You can find it on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and the publisher’s web site.

Matt Pearl is the author of the Telling the Story blog and podcast. Feel free to comment below or e-mail Matt at matt@tellingthestoryblog.com. You can also follow Matt on Facebook and Twitter.

I’ve read 30 nonfiction books in 12 months. These ten hit me most.

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Before last summer, I always balked at the seemingly straightforward question, “Do you read a lot of books?”

Do I read books? Sure! Well, I always mean to. I start quite a few, but it’s been a while since I actually finished one. I just get so distracted, you know? I can never sit down for long enough – and consistently enough – to really get into one. I wish I read more. It’s what I should do, right? I’m an educated adult. I want to know more about the world. Heck, I’ve even written a book. Surely I should want to read them. But life is so busy. And reading too often feels like work. I can’t just sit down and enjoy books. I don’t have time. So I rush through them and barely remember them a week after I finish. Maybe I’ll just never be a “reader.” But I’m sure I’ll keep trying.

I condensed that inner monologue into a sheepish but socially acceptable, “Sure … every now and then.”

That changed when I soon had no choice.

Twelve months ago I began an MFA program in narrative nonfiction at the University of Georgia. In two weeks I’ll begin Year Two. And the curriculum requires me to read eight nonfiction books every semester – essentially two a month – in addition to crafting twelve long-form works of my own.

So I read constantly. I knew I would force myself during the semesters. I didn’t know I would feel compelled to keep reading when they ended. I submitted my final assignment for the year at the end of April. I have continued reading two months a book through mid-July. I read while I walk on the treadmill. I read while I relax on the couch. I even read select books aloud to my four-month-old daughter while I feed her. (I read her children’s books too. But when you use one hand to hold a bottle and the other to keep your child’s head in position, you appreciate being able to swipe a Kindle screen rather than hold open a hardcover board book.)

As a human being on this spinning planet, I appreciate the education and perspective I receive from an powerful book. But I also benefit as a journalist. I study how authors structure their stories, use words to convey emotions, and construct a scene without any visual aids. I recently listened to an episode of the Longform podcast where food correspondent Helen Rosner spoke about the difference between an author’s intention and reader’s perception. “It doesn’t matter what you say,” she said. “It only matters what they hear.” As a TV reporter and photojournalist, I must guide my viewer through a few minutes. A nonfiction writer must do so through hundreds of pages.

In the last year I have read writing of high quantity and, for the most part, high quality. I have been exposed to writers with different backgrounds, perspectives, and life experiences. Here were the ten that moved me the most:

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5 lessons from this year’s National Edward R. Murrow Award winners

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Awards season typically crests and winds down as the summer arrives, with one of the highest of honors coming near the cycle’s end.

Last week the RTDNA announced this year’s national recipients of the Edward R. Murrow awards. Whenever the list comes out, I spend hours watching the winners. So often, even working in journalism, we miss the majority of the great work done nationwide. The Murrows gives us another chance to witness the pinnacle of our craft.

Here’s what I learned from pieces that spanned the spectrum of broadcast and digital media:

THE STORY: Recovering from Rehab (Reveal/Center for Investigative Action)
THE LESSON: Slow and steady CAN win the race.

Working in local TV has conditioned me to expect a certain type of investigative story: URGENT voicing from the reporter, DRAMATIC confrontations with a person in power, and WHIZ-BANG graphics to hold the attention of the casual news viewer who’s debating whether to keep watching or head to bed.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. This piece shows how.

Recovering from Rehab took the National Murrow for investigative reporting among Small Digital News Organizations, and it’s easy to see why: it’s just as effective, just as gripping, but nowhere near as sensational as its analogues in TV. Producer Olivia Merrion and reporters Amy Julia Harris and Shoshona Walter triumph here, with a straightforward but thoroughly reported story about a man sentenced to a year in prison but diverted to an alcoholism recovery program (despite no addiction to alcohol) where he mainly worked on a chicken processing plant. The super-tight shots at the start grab attention immediately, and from there Merrion and her team unfold the story with a deliberate confidence in its content.

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PODCAST EPISODE #63: Here’s how my journey in journalism affects my view as a dad.

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A few nights ago, I sat in my living room at 3 AM, feeding my daughter while contemplating my first Father’s Day as a dad, when one single moment crystallized my entire fatherly experience:

My baby spit milk into my mouth.

I couldn’t have planned it. I probably can’t replicate it. I had just pulled Olivia’s bottle and perched her on my lap. I had patted her back to burp her, then clutched her against my chest to soothe her. We had sat silently, her head leaning against mine, when I turned my cheek to give hers a kiss. As my lips puckered, Olivia swiveled her head my way and sent an ounce of milk fountaining from her mouth. Most landed on my shirt, some across my face. The rest settled inside my jaw. Dignity.

But it wasn’t her action that encapsulated my life as a dad. It was my reaction. I pffted out the milk, looked at my child, shook my head and laughed out loud in a pitch-black room. I wasn’t upset. I wasn’t grossed out. I felt grateful.

I’ve been waiting so long to be a dad, I thought. A little milk in the mouth is all part of the package.

I often wonder how my job as a journalist affects my outlook as a father, and it’s not always obvious. But in moments like the Great Spitting Incident of 2018, it becomes clear. Same when the twentieth person of the week asks me, “Are you sleeping at all yet?” I am! And what little sleep I lose hasn’t bothered me. Neither have the middle-of-the-night feeds, exploding poops, and impromptu workouts from carrying Olivia on my shoulder for 20 minutes.

I can shrug it off in Atlanta because I remember Sioux City. (more…)

I never thought much of journalism workshops. Then I attended one.

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This entry initially appeared on the Telling the Story blog last year. I rewrote and expanded it for 2018, and a version will appear in the next edition of News Photographer magazine.

My first experience at a journalism workshop was, well, not good.

I was a new college graduate, looking for my first job in TV. I had won a national college radio award and was invited to accept it in Las Vegas, at a side convention connected with the enormous NAB Show. At the time I didn’t drink, didn’t gamble, and didn’t dip into the types of nightlife and debauchery for which Vegas is most known. So I ate at a few buffets, caught a concert by a Beatles tribute band, spent ten minutes accepting my award, and meandered around NAB Show unable to access anything of value.

I didn’t need to see the latest camera lenses and production trucks. I needed a job. I wasn’t going to find one here. I left unimpressed with the workshop experience. For the next eleven years, I never considered attending another.

That was a mistake.

These days I sound the clarion for workshops. When I get asked to speak, I rarely turn them down. When I don’t get asked to speak, I sometimes go anyway and always encourage others to join. Why? I love the passion and enthusiasm that always emerge.

Rarely does our business make time for education. We are expected to learn on the fly and develop our skills while making all of our deadlines in the daily crunch. This is not unreasonable; in fact, I have always found I learn more by doing than watching.

Maybe that’s why I once balked at workshops. Yes, my Vegas experience left a stain, but my entry-level bank account didn’t compel me to drop hundreds of dollars (and valuable vacation days) to listen to a few people who I wasn’t sure I’d value anyway. I prized my own independence and unique viewpoint as a storyteller. I didn’t want to learn how to tell stories like everyone else.

I don’t deny any of these reasons. And as a new father who now funnels much of my money and spare time toward my daughter, I remain stingy and selective with my workshop dollar. I also still prefer to learn by doing.

But I find great value in watching. And I realized that value eleven years after Vegas, when I finally dipped again into workshop waters.

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