I drove to Miami yesterday – Bay Harbor Islands, to be exact – where I was interviewed about my life as a writer by a class of eighth graders studying journalism. I was a little apprehensive, having never worked at the most common job in journalism, reporter, but I had three other jobs in newsrooms that I could tell them about: feature writer, editorial writer, travel writer. Not surprisingly, most of the questions were about this last one, which – I had to tell them – no longer exists for the most part. At least not at newspapers.
As usual when I speak at schools here, the students were way ahead of me at the same age: most of them were bilingual and familiar with life outside the U.S. And their questions reflected their young worldliness. The first girl asked how the place I grew up influenced my writing. (She used the word “literature,” which I would have found flattering if I thought she had read me.) I don’t know if anyone had ever asked me that before, and I had to think about it for a while. I answered that growing up in a small town in the small state of New Jersey gave me a life-long affection for the underdog, one that’s often reflected in my choice of subjects (Poland, for instance). A boy asked if I ever experienced doubt as I was starting out, and I told him that I still do (like most writers). Another asked how I handle criticism.
The questions were thoughtful, the students attentive. I left feeling pretty good about the future.
