I am only a caged bird singing

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

My final assignment as a journalism grad student was to write a series of articles of some length on some topic. At the time, that was an overwhelming charge: What can I write about? Anything? Really, anything? How many stories should I write? How long should they run? I had lots of questions. But in retrospect, I understand why the guidelines for the master’s project were so open ended. Those are the types of questions I answer every day. Reporting and the publication itself determine the answers. I just start with the topic.

My master’s project was a series of three articles about independent musicians. I was fascinated by these people who built careers apart from the music industry marketing machines, and some of my sources had experience both on major labels and off.

Six years after I walked across the stage at Coleman Coliseum, I’m still able to explore music and its industry changes, sometimes through reviewing new albums (self-released, indie releases, major label releases–there’s a lot of great stuff coming from all directions), sometimes through interviewing national and local musicians. On Friday, a couple of Birmingham musicians promoted their evening gig with surprise lunchtime performances at local restaurants. I was there with video camera in hand, and it was such an adrenaline rush to see music performed in an unexpected context. That master’s project was more than a semester-long assignment necessary for my degree; it was the first step toward writing about an art form and business that continues to move me every day.

Gum Creek Killers make two surprise appearances at Birmingham eateries, Birmingham Box Set

(The subject line comes from “The Glass Ceiling” by another Birmingham-based musician, Jon Black.)

The weight of words

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Reading material is piled on my bed, and the stack seems to have grown each day this week. It’s that time of month, I suppose, as new magazines account for nearly half of my to-read-nowish list. Esquire arrived yesterday, I picked up New York magazine’s Reasons to Love New York issue earlier this week and the Oxford American’s Southern music issue takes time to digest. I’m also overwhelmed by books: a collection of essays sent by a friend, a chef’s memoir, Flannery O’Connor nonfiction that I have been dipping into at a leisurely pace.

I know how I’ll spend my Christmas vacation.

I spent this morning discussing the value of words with a dear friend. Beginning next month, Cory and I will lead a writing and letterpress printing workshop, which we’ve titled The Weight of Words. The eighth-grade girls in the workshop will write essays of belief, and we’ll end the workshop by letterpressing small posters of their six-word thesis statements.

Cory and I are letterpress aficionados (she’s a printer, I’m a collector of sorts), and we were both drawn to the art form in part because of the literal weight it gives to words. Even if you don’t ink the press’ rollers, this form of relief printing leaves a mark on the paper. The care required to set the type and the impression it makes on the paper are an appropriate homage to the written word.

We left our planning session energized, eager to share our love of art and writing with these young girls. And as I continue to plow through my ever-growing stack of reading material, I’m grateful that others share their words with me.

I wasn’t ready to go, I’m never ready to go

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I’m intense. I know this about myself, and most of the time I’ll freely admit it. Lately that’s manifested itself in the lists I make, trying to capture order in my little life. Birmingham bucket list (so far only the Zoo, because that’s what I was discussing when I started the list). Activities I belong to (DISCO, MORE, RMC, EOL). Activities I’m taking a break from (CG, PTTR). My essential friends (I’ll leave that one to the imagination). My 30th birthday party guest list (that’s still in process–the party’s not till July).

But today, my intensity showed up in the serious thought I gave to cleaning my office. I’ve worked in journalism for five and a half years, and I believe I still have files for every story I’ve written in that time. (If you figure an average of four stories a week during my year and a half of newspaper writing, an average of 10 stories a month during my first two and a half years of magazine writing and an average closer to five stories a month over the past year and a half, that’s easily 700 stories. And I’m not even counting blog posts–for which, mercifully, I’ve mostly avoided filing away physical notes.)

None of the friends I’ve surveyed have an exact system for determining when they should let go of these reams of paper. Yes, I’m looking for a precise methodology, because that’s what I do. And of course many of my friends are also in media, because we understand each other’s insanity. (Or because we’re too incestuous to make friends outside our industry. I’m not sure. My grad school professors worried about us.) So lacking rhyme or reason for both discarding and retaining files, today I opened a drawer and pulled everything out.

One year of files filled two trash cans.

Though I’m still worried that I was too quick to toss things, it mostly felt good to let go of the past, and of the clutter. My office is a bit of a cave. We’ve got two cubicles jammed in there, and I only have three full file drawers. My 2010 folders have been crammed between magazines atop the extra filing cabinet I rescued from storage, and I don’t have a suitable place for a guest to sit. It’s all very orderly, but I often feel like the stacks of paper are closing in on me. I won’t take meetings in there; the extra chair I keep handy is primarily so a coworker can fill me in on the previous night’s dates.

So as much as it worried me, and as much discussion as it prompted, today was a milestone. I let go of a little control and gained some freedom in return.

And then I rushed home to blog about it. Maybe that (and the fact that I have semi-colon artwork–awesome semi-colon artwork–in my office) is indicative of how much control I could stand to relinquish.

Everything turns to you

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I just finished reading an interview with author Azar Nafisi in the January 2009 issue of Book Page. Nafisi wrote the much-lauded Reading Lolita in Tehran, and her new memoir is Things I’ve Been Silent About. Referring to the first book, the interviewer asked why Nafisi reads, and her response struck home.

“I read for the same reason that I write: I cannot help myself. It is like falling in love, there must be a number of reasons why one falls in love, but when it comes to explaining them, one can feel tongue-tied. …”

Say what you will about City Stages

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Music fans and downtown workers have already tasted what’s in store this weekend. Festival gates and fences have been erected throughout the week in preparation for Birmingham’s annual music festival, and there was an unplugged concert in Linn Park during today’s lunch. We’re right at two hours till the festival officially kicks off, and you can bet there will be plenty said about it over the next several days.

The conversation has already started in the local media, and I expect several folks will keep it going throughout the weekend. I’m including links below for those of you interested in City Stages 20. I’ve got tickets in my purse and a schedule at my side, and I’m ready for a weekend full of music. Say what you will about City Stages–I know I will. If you know me, you can easily deduce where you’ll find my weekend music entries …

Birmingham magazine City Stages blog

Birmingham News/al.com City Stages coverage

Birmingham Weekly’s City Stages coverage [currently down–will edit link when things are working]

Black & White’s City Stages coverage

The Terminal’s City Stages guide

Wade on Birmingham’s City Stages guide (check out the haikus!)

Protected: Now Mary, she’s got everything she thought she ever wanted

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I know the burnout rate is high in my profession, but that didn’t use to bother me. I figured the people who grew bitter and cynical just couldn’t hack it in this business.

I never claimed not to be naiive.

Now that rate frightens me because I’ve realized I could be part of that number. I’m a year in, and already I struggle with living to work instead of vice-versa. I only work 25 hours a week, but I feel a slave to my job.

You know what scares me even more than the possibility of going a different route, of holding a $25,000 degree that I may not use for the rest of my life? I am terrified to think that the problem could be me.

I’m not going to give up journalism easily, if at all. Even if I decide newspapers aren’t for me, there are other possibilites. I’m not the most disciplined person, and I want to stick this out for a while – because it would be good for me.

But it would also be good for me to admit that there could be other options.

I don’t know where I’m going, but I know you’ll be there

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I read an article today on Slate that really resonated with me. I would quote parts of it here, but really, you should just go read the entire thing.

http://www.slate.com/id/2140095/

I don’t like writing very much right now. It’s been months since I wrote something that I was pleased with, whether personally or professionally. Instead of a craft that I work at and take pride in, it’s become a chore, a means to a paycheck.

That’s not to say I don’t want to write anymore. I do. Even when I daydream about quitting and doing something else, writing figures prominently. (Today my brilliant idea was that I should become a flight attendant and write about that somehow … travel articles or something. Or travel articles and a book. I haven’t figured it all out yet. But then I realized that Delta isn’t hiring and I don’t want to fly Southwest and Continental wants you to have two years of customer service experience, which I do not. So then I thought I might stick with journalism.)

Journalism is still the love in my life (even when Jesus should be). I’m in this for the long haul, and I think I may have a book (or two) in me yet. But right now I’m in a rut.

And though they have nothing to do with each other, that article also reminded me of the introduction to Don Miller’s “Blue Like Jazz.” I’m tired of resolution – I feel sometimes like everything I write has to have a neat ending, even if it’s just spilling my guts all over the World Wide Web. I want to be OK with uncertainty and unanswered questions.

Sometimes, I want to create them for myself.

I never liked jazz music because jazz music doesn’t resolve. But I was outside the Bagdad Theater in Portland one night when I saw a man playing the saxophone. I stood there for fifteen minutes, and he never opened his eyes.

After that I liked jazz music.

Sometimes you have to watch somebody love something before you can love it yourself. It is as if they are showing you the way.

I used to not like God because God didn’t resolve. But that was before any of this happened.

–Don Miller

Protected: Prettiest city in Alabam (password: my birthplace)

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

The dream is this: I find a job in Birmingham. It’s enough to pay my bills on 40 hours a week, plus enough to save a little for retirement.

I move out of my grandmother’s house and into a Southside apartment with Katie. My family is all still within a half hour of me, and my 16-year-old cousin and I can have girly sleepovers with movies and chocolate chip cookie dough.

Living with Katie also means having a close friend down the hall. Susan (well, both Susans, actually) would be just 10 minutes away. Living in Southside means living in my church neighborhood and just over the mountain from my community group (as well as Anna, Jeff and Heath). It means walking to coffee or friends’ homes (maybe). It means deepening friendships and a short drive to work.

The reality is this: It’s not likely to happen, at least, not soon. The one Birmingham job I currently have a shot at is part time (which would be OK, but wouldn’t fulfill the dream. And, after reading the job description, I’m afraid I could be overqualified).

The dream is several years away still, and by then it will probably assume a different incarnation.

Still, it’s nice to dream.

I’m holding on underneath this shroud

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Death isn’t supposed to be scary when you’re a Christian – at least, I feel like it shouldn’t be. We have the promise of eternal life, that when life passes away, we’ll be with Jesus.

And that sounds good, and I do believe that. And yet, when someone I know dies, I find myself wondering: Are they really in a better place? Is there really life after death? Or is the end, the end?

Last summer I wrote two stories about Cassidy, a little girl who was battling a brain tumor. When I interviewed her mother for the first story, it was only days after Cassidy’s grandfather had died in a car accident on his way to visit the hospital. Talking to Suzie about her father’s death was the first time I interviewed someone after the death of a loved one. When I called the next month to schedule a follow-up interview, I heard Suzie’s husband, Sean, shouting in the background: “Be sure that CJ is the one who comes! I want to meet CJ!”

That was one of the best compliments of my career.

Cassidy and her family captured my heart. They entrusted me with sharing their story, which was at once heart-wrenching and hopeful. I got to see the community rally around the family and I saw how the family clung to their hope in Christ through their daughter’s illness.

Cassidy died Friday night. She was 6 years old.

I gasped (literally gasped) when I opened to her picture in the Birmingham News obituaries this morning. I’d kept up with Cassidy’s health in the seven months since she left the hospital using a Web site her family had set up. But I hadn’t looked in on her in several months, and had no idea that she had checked back in.

Among the many, many people thanked in Cassidy’s obituary, her family included The Tuscaloosa News. It amazes me that in what surely must be the toughest time of their lives, Suzie and Sean would think of what I wrote as a blessing. They, and their precious daughter, were the ones who blessed me.