OPINION: Eight months later

Forgive me for straying away from movies today. Blame the chilly or political weather for this one.

I joined the staff of the Creston News Advertiser in March, feeling very green and nervous but still hopeful to contribute. I tried to learn fast, got used to my routines and helped contribute immediately to growing stories, especially in Afton.

I had never had my writing published under any official medium outside of brief online personal blogs. All I had on my resume were writing projects for college classes. If I was meant to be a writer, like my grandfather and great-uncle, I’d figure it out quick.

In the time since, I’ve seen a side of a county which has been open, kind and gracious to me, even when I’ve been totally awkward. At times I’ve felt like a baby deer, legs shaking and overly fretful about every little action I’ve made. It’s the people who I’ve interviewed and wrote stories about which have helped guide me to my own abilities as a storyteller.

Recently, I got involved with Crest Area Theater’s production of “It’s A Wonderful Life” as a main cast member, which has been incredibly exciting to be a part of. A few times a week, I get the chance to shed all the stress built up during the day and truly focus on something entirely different. It’s kept me sane, and I already can’t wait for performances starting on Dec. 6.

I chose to be a writer because I knew it was something I was good at. I wrote my first movie review in 2017, when I was in high school pretending to do schoolwork. I created my first blog, and my friends pestered me to continue because they liked reading it. The rest was history, especially after I got closer with my grandfather, a former reporter, and the passing of my great uncle, whose book of poems inspired me.

The biggest reward a writer can have is the acknowledgement of those who read it. There’s so much media in the world, and the idea in which even a single person takes time out of their day to read what I have to say is valuable.

As a reporter, I remove myself from my stories inherently. I may guide an interview, but these stories are not mine. The only parts of me in these stories is only the choice to write, and my name under the headline.

There’s real anxiety in serving this role, and I scan the words I write over and over again to make sure what I write is accurate and presented authentically. I’ve received criticism already, and I take it and learn from it. I’ve never been malicious in my writing, and I never will be.

During these eight months, I also got used to being a photojournalist. This is the most immediately anxious part of my job, almost no one wants to have their photo taken during a public event. To anyone who spots me, know we’re both equally uncomfortable. But, looking through these photos after an event is over, I understand the value in what this means, and I try to carry the energy in every event I attend.

Of course, the staff here have been patient with me and are absolutely wonderful people. Mandy, Erin, John and Cheyenne deal with me every day and have always been there for me. I tear up thinking about their impact on me as a writer and as a person, even across only eight months.

I’m an emotional person, something which I believe is a fundamental aspect to have for my job. I cry what feels like once a week, often while I’m driving, about anything ranging from a really good movie I watched or feelings of loneliness. This is no weakness, it’s an acceptance of myself.

I’m also dramatic, neurotic on random fixations, afraid to ask for help, sometimes narcissistic and selfish. I’m human.

On Sept. 20, I arrived at the office, my brain on fire. That morning was stressful, as water damage in my apartment was currently being fixed by my gracious landlords. Still, I wondered if I would have to look for new housing if I couldn’t live comfortably anymore.

I left the office early, drove to Ankeny to see my mom and dad while work was done in my apartment. My mom cut my hair, but, as I was showering afterward, I slipped and hit my head on the shower floor. Embarrassing, and a little funny. It felt like I slipped on a banana peel.

I remember crying on the couch in front of my dad, who asked me if something was wrong, and I was too scared to tell him I didn’t feel strong, courageous or happy.

I had to quickly drive back to Creston, this was the first day of Balloon Days, and I was to fly in a hot air balloon. With weather reports already in for the weekend, this was most likely to be the only time for flights. When I arrived, I couldn’t even find my pilot, Bill Clemons, and his family. When I did find them, I remember how nervous I was with people I have never met, having just recovered from a day of stress and embarrassment.

As the balloon inflated, I immediately had second thoughts. I had already made them late, but I wondered if I could back out. But, this was my job, and before I knew it, I was clutching the basket and my camera, rising rapidly into the air.

When you look down at the ground below, you would think the first instinct would be fear, but I wasn’t scared. There’s no room for fear in your head at that point. It’s magic, watching the same town I drive to every day from so high in the air.

That moment in time was special, something so out of the ordinary of my life. I started taking pictures after giving myself a few moments to savor the view. To the few kids who were so excited I spotted them and waved back, you rock.

It was the most profound moment of my life, at least so far. It was the combination of all my worries, all my fears that day being completely erased by the natural beauty and peace of the world from so high above it. And my job was to capture it.

This job is the most special experience of my life, something which changes and surprises me on a daily basis. The stories I get to tell motivate every second of my life. I couldn’t ask for a better group of people who guide me. I’m not going away anytime soon.