j-school

Nobody’s perfect, especially journalists. It’s OK for us to admit it.

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Maybe you’ve seen it scroll across your Instagram feed. Maybe you’ve heard it on a YouTube clip. But more than likely, if you’re in a field that involves creativity and craft – and journalism is absolutely such a field – you’ve become familiar with Ira Glass’ famous quote about the “taste gap.”

“For the first couple of years you make stuff,” Glass once said, “what you’re making isn’t so good. It’s trying to be good. It has ambition to be good. But it’s not quite that good. … A lot of people never get past that phase. … They quit. … It’s totally normal, and the most important possible thing you can do is do a lot of work – do a huge volume of work. … It’s gonna take you a while. It’s normal to take a while. And you just have to fight your way through that.”

It’s a critical message for creators, a light beam of faith from those who have clawed through the darkness. Keep working and creating, Glass tells us, and we’ll get to a place where our taste matches our ambition.

But I’m not sure if that place truly exists.

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I’m back in J-school. And I’m back to being unsure of myself.

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I arrived on the University of Georgia campus with a steadily growing to-do list.

Pick up paper towels. Run to Target. Try to go to bed early. Check my work e-mail in case of an emergency.

I had just driven 90 minutes from midtown Atlanta to downtown Athens. I work full-time as a TV reporter but this past August began a 2 ½-year MFA program in narrative nonfiction at UGA’s Grady School of Journalism. Each semester kicks off with a mandatory weeklong residency on-campus; this past Sunday, we all converged on campus from across the country. The program directors threw us a welcome dinner, and on the walk back, I asked a classmate about his plans for the night. He said he would head to the hotel bar and hang out as late as anyone wanted.

Not me. I planned to make my Target run and retreat to my room for a hopeful eight hours of sleep.

My classmate shook off that idea. He heralded the week as a chance for us hungry writers to revel together in our ambitions, to encourage and inspire each other. He closed with a line that would flatter any hopeful Hemingway: “This is like Paris in the Twenties!”

I needed to hear that … because my first semester felt like Times Square at rush hour.

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