This Former Intern’s Life: By Jennifer Shenouda

But once I acquired some basic knowledge and understanding, I did what any 23-year old eager beaver would do; I took on more assignments, fascinated with these thingamagigers called facts!

So it may come as a surprise to some that this was my final week on the job, but that’s only because my last stretch has been spent covering news, rather than probing my own thoughts for some minute speck of substance (hence, the creation of weekly columns).

Ironically, I’ve discovered that it is in these instants of ignoring my own private monologue to go cover all the newsy pulp out there in the ‘burbs, that my personal thoughts have encroached on me, now more than ever. So it is that this goodbye column, complete with a clear blue tear rolling down my cheek, is dedicated to the act of writing in general, as well as my own inconclusiveness as to which type of writing is more cathartic, more liberating: journalism or creative writing?

When I was younger I wrote a certain line in a poem, about my inability to stop the flow of insecure or negative thoughts from entering my mind, which went something like this:

“That critical little monster’s got a front-row balcony seat, inside my head.”

I envisioned my deflated self-narrative, that has pestered me my entire young life, as an actual living, breathing monster. But I am not naïve (enough) to think that this critic is just a part of my own existence, but rather a custom-made multiplier of bad brainwaves that disrupts the peace and calm of almost everyone I know.

In the wise lyrics of Alanis Morisette, back when she was a teen, “life has a funny way of sneaking up on you when you think everything’s okay, and everything is going right.”

It doesn’t take great trauma to befall us, for our perception of life to flicker from peachy keen to rotten peach. It just takes a miniscule shift in attitude for someone to go from feeling wow, to woe is me, and that is precisely when our monsters do the most damage.

As an aspiring writer, when my monster is hushed and sleepy, I feel I can do my most thorough reporting, without mingling my sentiments in with a feature story, nor spraying my personal preoccupations du jour across the page. Journalism, at its best, (I’ve been told) aspires to be objective, factual. Though I often worry that if I am totally detached from a story it will not have any human-interest appeal.

Contrary to reporting, my most genuine creative writing seems to come from just the opposite of objectivity. Facts can be twisted and tinkered with to suit the piece of writing, and words can be invented, where they lack. My monster is howling to get on top of a soap box and scream at such moments of inspiration.

None the less, when all is said and done, even though confessional poetry tries to appeal to

people’s emotional side and journalism (in my opinion) aims to inform; both writing styles end up cross-firing and it is not unusual to pick up a newspaper and feel touched, or read a poem and feel intellectually stimulated. Both end up putting our monsters to better use, by focusing on reaching out or communicating the introspective. So the debate will personally never tip to one side for me, and at the end of the day they’re my two greatest loves of my life, professionally speaking.

Note: Many thanks to all the staff at the Chronicle for their kindness and guidance