By Joel Thurtell
If journalism is to be saved, who will resurrect it from the ashcan of history?
Why, none other than historians.
If they’re up to the task.
Having made the pitch that grad school-trained historians — of whom there is an over-abundance — could improve the quality of thinking that goes on in the nation’s newsrooms, I have to admit that I’m concerned about something else — the fact that academically-trained historians are relative innocents, compared to your run-of-the-mill journalist.
Back-stabbery as practiced by American journalists is a finely-honed skill. One of the merits of historians is that they are not indoctrinated by latter-day Machiavelis to be cynical career-grabbers.
But still, any historian contemplating a career in journalism needs to be warned.
There are very distinct and shall we say cultural differences between the mindset of your mainline journalist and your university-educated historian.
There is, for instance, the issue of plagiarism.
Historians are by nature dead-set against stealing other people’s work.
Not so journalists.
In the world of ideas, they are cat burglars, petty thieves and grand larcenists.
Now, you may have noticed that any set of ethical guidelines promulgated by your average newspaper will proscribe the p-crime.
Don’t let the window dressing fool you.
Plagiarism is rampant among journalists, albeit in forms that are deemed acceptable, at least by the fraternity and sorority members of journalism.
I know this will shock you historians, because you have been trained to seek unique topics for research — topics that have not been delved into by other human beings.
That is the whole idea of history — to discover, learn and analyze new territories of history.
Shedding light on facts that are sometimes old, sometimes newly found.
You the historian are, in short, wired to quest after originality.
Sorry to say, but originality is not a desideratum for journalists.
Rather, their goal too often is just the opposite: Subjects that have been churned up by other journalists and thus proven safe are the ones that journalists most cherish.
You see, newspaper people are career-protecting people who don’t like to rock the boat, let alone a fleet of ships.
And since most of our papers today are members of chains, the fleet of ships metaphor is apt. Orders come from corporate headquarters, and careers are made not by good work in the local newsroom, but on the company’s national stage.
Courage is not in great supply among those who put out our daily news feeds.
It follows that untested ideas, or subjects that have not been plowed up hundreds of times by other journalists, appear as minefields to journalists.
Careers are at risk, and fresh thinking can be dangerous.
There are two implications of this reality for historians who wish to practice journalism.
First, watch your back. If your idea is really good, it could be poached by another journalist with no credit given to you, the originator.
If you don’t believe me, just listen to any radio station news program and see if the DJ doesn’t steal unabashedly from local newspapers without giving credit where it is due.
Having your intellectual pocket picked is a risk you run by turning to journalism.
The second and bigger danger, though, is the trap of originality.
Danger lurks in new ideas.
Peril hovers over a new discovery.
Is your topic unthought of and fundamentally original?
If so, it may not be recognized as a legitimate story by fellow journalists, including editors who are empowered to either accept your idea or slit its throat.
Or, if it is recognized as a great idea, it may still be ditched for fear of pissing off advertisers or other power brokers with check books that could buy a thousand historian-reporters.
I don’t want to discourage you.
Just beware. Don’t talk up good story ideas until you’ve got them nailed down, and then be careful how you pitch them to editors.
What if your idea is rejected?
Well, remember where you came from.
You are a historian.
History in its raw form — time — is on your side.
Editors, focused more on careers than on the endeavor called seeking after truth, will come and go.
File your rejected idea today and wait.
You may wait for years, but your time — or rather, your idea’s time — will come.
If you wish to learn more about how historians and other independent thinkers can break into journalism, I highly recommend my book, SHOESTRING REPORTER: HOW I GOT TO BE A BIG CITY REPORTER WITHOUT GOING TO J SCHOOL AND HOW YOU CAN DO IT TOO.
If you are frustrated by lame-brained editors, you may enjoy my chapter, “Why are editors dumb?”
There is also a chapter that tests the reader’s ability to separate truth from garbage: “Building a bullshit meter” is all about discerning truth and rejecting falsehood.
In a forthcoming book, TOMATOES AND EGGS, I will focus on how historians can infiltrate the ranks of journalists and plant well-researched articles about the past.
Certainly, as a historian-turned-journlaist, you are up against profound prejudices.
Newspaper editors are fixated on the present and deplore stories with a historic twist.
But as I point out in SHOESTRING REPORTER, editors are also pummeled by the historian’s friend — time — and often in their panic to meet deadline will accept a previously rejected story with a subject that stinks of history.
History, in sum, is subversive, and practicing history as a journalist is a subversive activity.
Are you the historian up to some entertaining and intellectually rewarding fifth-column work?
If you are, come with me to journalism and we’ll have some fun.
