A telling paragraph in Michael Lewis's review of 'Why I Left Goldman Sachs':
The author recounts how he spent most of the six months leading up to last March working at Goldman by day while writing up his deeply felt grievances against Goldman by night. When he finished he had a 1,500-word counterblast but no place to put it: he e-mailed it to the general address for blind submissions to the Times op-ed page. He heard nothing for a month, and so finally dug out the e-mail addresses of four Times editors, and sent his piece to all of them. The next morning the Times got in touch with him.
It's great that "Why I Am Leaving Goldman Sachs" eventually got noticed and published, but I can't help thinking about all the other pieces submitted to that blind submissions address that weren't.
A lot of people are sitting on fascinating stories about the places where they work, where they live, what's happening in their lives. This is what journalists, what journalism, are supposed to be concerned with. But sometimes it seems like newspapers are only interested in great stories when their own reporters get to tell them.
Earlier today I read this New Yorker article about 'slow journalism', the kind produced by reporters who are embedded, walking a beat, just hanging out until something happens so fascinating the rest of the world needs to know about it. Newspapers don't have the money for foreign bureaus anymore, the article laments, so now reporters have to parachute into financial reform, scientific debates, economic indicators, write it up and whoosh on to the next one.
In Beijing, the joke among hacks is that, after the drive in from the airport, you are ready to write a column; after a month, you feel the stirrings of an idea-book; but after a year, you struggle to write anything at all, because you've finally discovered just how much you don't know.
That's probably true, and probably sad. But I wonder if what it really means is that, in a world where anyone can write a blog post or take a photo or make a documentary, we need reporters less than we need harvesters.
Thousands of people live in fascinating places, are experts in their fields, work in fucked-up and hilarious institutions. Many of these people can tell you their story, and why it matters, better than a reporter ever could.
I'm sure the New York Times gets all kinds of cranks sending them op-eds from curtained rooms, but I'm sure they also get thousands of stories that are one editor away from fascinating, thousands of people who can't tell a new story every week but have one great one they're struggling to tell.
Newspapers are supposed to teach us what's true in the world. Sometimes a professional reporter is the best person to do that. Sometimes not. I hope that, as journalism becomes whatever it's becoming, it finds time not just to tell us stories, but to find them.