By Allison Martin
I am a journalist who hated my journalism classes. Anyone else out there with me? I loved to write, to tell stories, and get people to think. In college, I used to hang out in our campus newspaper office long after hours “just because.” I started volunteering as a writer at a nonprofit organization to get more chances to put words to paper. But I could not stand my writing classes.
Don’t get me wrong—I learned some valuable information from my coursework. Proper punctuation, when to use digits and when to spell out numbers, and the difference between ensure and insure, entitled and titled (look them up—you probably misuse them yourself!). What I couldn’t stomach was the formulaic approach some of my teachers took to writing. From the lede (journalist talk for the first sentence of your article, pronounced “leed”) to the closing ’graph, my writing was consistently marked up in the name of making sure I was clear and concise, and that my product met the needs of my audience.
Those are qualities I desperately wanted my writing to possess, and yet I hated the training. I was consistently told what I needed to do, but I never understood why. I was given the outline, but I never understood the reasons the outline worked.
Until I became an interpreter.
In my journalism classes, I wasn’t taught to make connections, to provoke or evoke. But why not? After all, one of the goals of a working journalist is to write an article about something people want or need to know in order to, ultimately, sell your product (the publication for which you write). But the most compelling newspaper articles or magazine features are those that tell a story you enjoy, that connect to your own life experiences, and that stir in you a sense that you should do something. In the end, a great piece of journalism is one that makes you, the reader, tell your friends about it. Isn’t that the mark of a good museum exhibit, or park visit, too?
The Epiphany
I never thought about using NAI’s interpretive strategy in my freelance journalism until I was working on a particularly challenging article. I couldn’t think of very much to say, and the words I did manage to type out sounded dull and lifeless. At one point, I threw up my hands and hollered at my laptop, “I don’t even know what this article is about!”
To distract myself, I started filing some paperwork away, and among the files was my Certified Interpretive Guide packet. I started flipping through the explanations of how to craft an interpretive message. All of a sudden, I stopped flipping, turned to my computer, and began typing.
In the months since I experienced my interpretive-journalism epiphany, I’ve noticed the writing process getting easier and easier. Words come more naturally, and I find that when I write, I try to simply tell a story rather than get bogged down in form and function. As a result, I work more effectively and I turn in better content in the end. Specifically, I’ve noticed the following changes in how I work as a writer:
Identifying a Purpose and Theme
This sounds like something so simple, but making a conscious choice to identify these two elements in my writing provides a sense of direction as I write—a roadmap so I don’t get lost. Sometimes, I see my writing assignments as boring “must-dos” that pay the bills. Sometimes, I’m so interested in the topic I veer off on tangents. Knowing why I’m writing and the big idea I hope to communicate to the audience alleviates both of these bad habits of mine.
Using Better Mechanics
I’ve always been a fan of good grammar and punctuation. You know what I’m also a fan of? Run-ons: those long sentences that just go on and on and on without end. Since becoming a CIG, I now read aloud everything that I write, because if it can be said easily, it can be read easily. That’s not to say I write all my articles as if they were interpretive talks or speeches, but reading aloud helps me identify areas where I’ve let an idea or sentence go past its peak into the danger zone.
Knowing My Content and My Audience
Again, it sounds like something so simple—to know what you’re talking about and whom you’re saying it to. But I think many times journalists fall into the trap that humor columnist Dave Barry pointed out: “We journalists make it a point to know very little about an extremely wide variety of topics; this is how we stay objective.” I now keep a copy of the interpretive equation handy whenever I write: knowledge of your audience plus knowledge of your resource (or subject matter) plus appropriate techniques equals an interpretive (or journalistic) opportunity.
Deciding Why and How to Make an Emotional Connection
Emotional connections aren’t really something my journalism professors taught us. We were instead trained (sometimes repeatedly) that we needed to remain unbiased at all times. But since merging my journalistic and interpretive training, I’ve concluded that tapping into emotions and keeping yourself objective are not necessarily mutually exclusive. In Indiana University’s Eppley Institute for Parks and Public Lands courses in interpretation, students are given entire lists of techniques they can use to read their audiences’ emotions. Imagery, allusion, irony, quotation—those are at the heart of good storytelling, and at the heart of good journalism as well. Henry Anatole Grunwald, former editor of Time magazine, once remarked that journalism “must speak, and speak immediately, while the echoes of wonder, the claims of triumph, and the signs of horror are still in the air.” What a boring article it would be if the journalist left those emotions in the air without acknowledging them on paper as well.
Paying Attention to the Beginning and End
The last thing that has really hit home for me concerns something I take a lot of pride in: the beginning and ending of my articles. These elements are often my strengths, and I am grateful to my CIG training for renewing the respect and care I give to these sections as I write. Eppley Institute’s course on Interpretive Talk states, “The beginning and ending of a talk are critical. What you say in the opening few minutes sets the tone for your presentation. It creates a first impression. In many locations audiences are able to come and go, so an effective introduction is essential to drawing in an audience.” The same is true in journalism. How many times do we start a newspaper or magazine article, read a paragraph or two, and move on? How many of us never even get past the headline? As a writer, my first priority is to grab an audience and make them want to stay with me through my whole story. That’s something my professors always told me, but never truly taught me.
Thanks, Mr. Tilden
It really should not surprise me that learning interpretation made me a better journalist. After all, Freeman Tilden himself was a newspaper columnist before he started working with the National Park Service. Ultimately, interpretation, journalism, and many other fields are, at their hearts, subsets of the discipline of communication. Knowing how to tell a story, exchange ideas, explore new concepts—and understanding how to do it well—are universal tools that live beyond any one profession. As I think about my two jobs—zoo interpreter and freelance writer—I realize that I owe a debt of gratitude to Mr. Tilden, and doubly so. We have many opportunities throughout the years to learn skills that will make us better at our jobs. It is a rare privilege to be given the chance to understand what your job, your passion, is truly about.
Allison Martin, CIG, is a play programs facilitator at Brookfield Zoo outside Chicago. She is also a freelance writer and part-time speech coach. Contact her at allison317@gmail.com.
