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I pay for my journalism degree $95.87 each month. I’ve written checks for gas. I’ve overdrawn my account on coffee more than once. Total strangers call me names I wouldn’t call a baby killer. I used to cry over it, but not anymore. Once, a relative pointed to a TV anchor and said, “Maybe you’ll get there one day.” I’ve run through a hostage standoff, stood at a burning house swarmed with bees, watched someone die. I’ve met celebrities and a baby cheetah (cheetah was cooler). I scaled a heavy truck in heels to interview a guy in a Speedo. It all trickles into the novels I tap-tap-tap at night. I get to do things. I get to go outside. I write, and people read it. I’m nervous all the time. All. The. Time. I’ve done this since I was 19. I don’t know how to do anything else.
I am a newspaper reporter.