speak truth.

Writing comes in many forms.

Last night I got the opportunity to take a step back from the journalistic world of writing, and be exposed to an entire different platform of writing: music.

I made the trip to Kansas City to see my favorite band, Twenty One Pilots, perform at a sold-out show. And it was the best concert I've ever been to. The best way to describe the band, though there is still debate at how exactly to identify them, would be indie pop/rap. It's not your typical rap, though; no, their lyrics are much deeper. It's kind of like spoken word.

My favorite thing about Twenty One Pilots is that they sing (or say) the words that no one is willing to speak up about. Much of their content is centered around depression, feeling stuck or hopeless. The reason why they draw an audience that is so dedicated and passionate towards them, is because of their sincerity and realness. People appreciate truthfulness. People appreciate others speaking when they feel they have to be mute.

Like I said, it was a sold-out show. Twenty One Pilots delivered their content and put on an incredible, intimate show. One of the best parts was how engaged the crowd was the entire time.

As a journalist, a writer and a lover of music, I strive to be like Twenty One Pilots. I hope to speak truth, connect with others around me and tell the stories of those who are feeling the weight of silence.

Twenty One Pilots has made a huge impact on me, and that's one person's thoughts going from his mind to words.

"Thank you for choosing our music to get from one place to the next."

The power of words; they can really take you places.

listening.

I'm awkward. When it comes to interviewing, I'm very awkward. 

I know it's all in my head and I psyche myself out, because I love talking to people and getting to know their stories. But man, I have a hard time with not sounding like a robot when I know someone important is on the other end of the line. 

I go into every conversation thinking, okay, you can do this. After they finish a thought, ask deeper questions based off what they said. Then, when it comes to the actual interview, they say something and my response instead becomes, "Okay, thank you!" (moves onto next question). It's very frustrating, actually. I know I'm fully capable of conversing. So, what was it then? 

I realized something. I'm good at listening but am I always genuinely listening? Do I listen for when a person's tone of voice shifts in excitement, sadness or fear? Do I truly listen or do I just hear? 

This weekend I visited home and I got the opportunity to ask my mom a lot of questions about her childhood. The best part? It wasn't intentional. 

We were driving back from spending some time with my brother and had about an hour drive to my house. I forgot what I asked exactly, but it was something along the lines of, "Where did you live when you were in Pharmacy school?" Somehow that ONE question led to an hour conversation where I discovered things about my mom that I never knew before. And I'm a 20-year-old. 

I found out that my mom has lived in 10 different places in her lifetime, one of them being a different state for a few years; I had no idea. As my mom revisited her past verbally, I sat there and listened. I listened as she told me memories of her and my dad meeting and falling in love. She laughed as she reminisced of lying to her mom about going to a Cardinal's game with my dad, but then having to turn on the radio in the car because they didn't even know the final score. I listened when her voice saddened and then I asked why times were hard then. She told me about a time when my dad had gotten back to his friend's apartment, and a note was on the door saying to get to a hospital. They shortly after found out that his friend's sister had died in a car wreck. At times I wouldn't say anything at all. I listened as she became nostalgic. My favorite thing was when she was trying to remember the timeline of events and was sorting them out verbally. 

There was a time when I shut up completely. During that time, my mom shared some of her fondest, and most intimate memories with me.

I went home and wrote out all of the things she had told me so I wouldn't forget them. 

Yeah, sometimes silence is painful. But other times, it's what needs to happen for the beautiful things to take place. 

the best doughnut I've ever had.

The coolest thing about being a journalist is that you're constantly on alert for finding a story. And the even cooler thing about being a journalist, is that you always find one. Even when you aren't searching for one or your "journalism brain" is turned off, there's something to discover. There's something to learn. The hard part with it then is following up with it. But ultimately, you have the power to report the story for not only what it is, but what it has the potential to be.

A few days ago, one of my best friends, Emily, shared a link on my Facebook wall. The link was to a mutual favorite band of ours, Needtobreathe, singing a song called, "Washed by the Water." The song is about cruelty in the world and with every possibility to drown in the evil surrounding you, something beautiful happening instead.

Last night I was spending some one-on-one time with Emily. It looked pretty similar to how our friend dates usually go; driving around, loud music, a trip to Target and of course, a doughnut from QuikTrip. Earlier in the car, we had been listening to the version of "Washed by the Water" that she introduced me to.

We were almost to QuikTrip, still jammin' to Needtobreathe when that's exactly what we had to pull over to do. Being the appropriate amount of dramatic, while trying not to scare my mom more than what she was, I will say this: we barely avoided a head-on collision. The other car was going probably 20 over the speed limit and was in our lane when there was no reason for them to have been. It was terrifying. We savored our doughnuts.

We had to do something spontaneous after that. Though we were fine, those kind of situations get you thinking. We decided to go take a little dip in a fountain. Fully clothed. I had only planned on putting my legs in, doing the bare minimum to still say I did it. Before I was even completely in, I was already ready to get out; the water was cold. Then Emily found humor in splashing me. By the end of it, I was pretty soaked, head to toe. She looked at me and smiled. "You're washed by the water," she said.

On the way home from dropping her off, I couldn't stop thinking about the night. There was a story in whoever was driving way too fast and being in the wrong lane. There definitely would have been a story if it had turned into a car wreck. But apart from both of those things, there was still a story.

fear of annoyance.

Today in lecture we talked about covering trauma. One of the things that Matt Pearce said was he's never fully gotten over feeling a little uncomfortable having to call people during times of trauma. I really related to this. 

I've never covered trauma as a journalist yet. However, one thing I dread doing is calling people in general, out of fear that I'm being annoying, or that I'm the last person they want to talk to.  

In my own life, though I wouldn't necessarily label it as "trauma," I did experience some hard things. My dad was diagnosed with stage four colon cancer my freshman year of high school. During the entire three years of him fighting, I had memorized my robotic response to whenever people would try to talk to me about it. 

"How's your dad doing? How are you? Is your family okay?"

I had gotten so sick of the same questions from different people, that I was never genuine and honest with how things really were. I knew people cared, but their surface level questions convinced me otherwise. But ultimately, people care. 

I think one of the biggest challenges as a journalist is convincing people that you DO care about their story. Once people know that, they will most likely be more open and vulnerable with you. Again, that goes back to asking the right questions. 

I know I care and it's on me to convince someone else of that. 

what'd I miss?

You know when you're sitting in the movie theatre, and then it suddenly hits you; the urge to pee. You don't want to miss the movie, but you also want to acknowledge the fact that you really have to go. Initially, you avoid it. But eventually, you know you can't ignore the overwhelming feeling.

That is this semester at the Missourian for me.

Yes, I know it sounds extremely odd to compare having to pee to reporting at the Missourian, but I'm going somewhere with this, I promise.

It seems typical to me now to go through the motions, or in other words, make it through a normal semester of college. It's fairly easy to prioritize your social life above what should be the main priority. One can still do pretty much anything they want, make their own curfew, barely commit to things and walk away still making it. This semester, however, is drastically different.

Working at the Missourian leaves little to no breathing room for half-assing anything. It really isn't an option. Combine that with being terrified of failure and that creates a lot of fear for a 20-year-old.

I love journalism. I really do. This is what I'm choosing to do with my life because I enjoy it. I also love the other parts of my (social) life that are hard to give up.  Ultimately, I know that I don't have to give them up, but rather sacrifice some time and miss a few things. The Missourian is something I need to put a lot of time and effort into this semester. It's like missing a little bit of the movie when you leave to go pee. You're not going to miss the entire thing, you'll see the ending and you'll feel a lot better when you finally get up to go to bathroom. The sooner you get up, the better.

You can't avoid it forever. I can't either.

the art of accuracy.

Today in lecture, Katherine talked to us about the importance of accuracy and good habits we as journalists can do, to prevent inaccurate reporting. 

According to lecture, the top three causes of errors in reporting are working from memory, making assumptions and using secondhand sources. Whenever these were said, I immediately could relate to them, especially the working from memory one; I've had this temptation multiple times as a journalist. 

Whenever I covered the Jeff Mizanskey story, I had made a few phone calls for pre-interviewing. While on the phone with a source, I had asked if I could record their call. While recording the call, I had taken minimal notes because I was trying to listen intently to ask better questions. I had used my laptop to voice record the eight minute conversation. At the end of it, I thanked my source before hanging up the phone and pressing "stop" on the recording. My laptop proceeded to display the never-ending cursor. I knew I was doomed. Eventually, I had to "force quit" the document that contained the recording, resulting in the entire conversation being lost. 

At first I just sat there, staring at my laptop in panic. Then I was tempted. I remembered few things in my head that my source had said, but nothing was for certain. Before long, I found myself writing down words that I knew were said, but then filling in what I didn't know with my own words. I stared at my "source's quotes" for a bit, before I decided to delete them, recognizing the harm it could do. I ended up using only the little information I had written down before I went into my intense listening. It worked out, and I hadn't worked from memory.

I learned the danger in not only working from memory, but also in relying on a recorder versus my note-taking abilities. It wasn't wrong to record an interview, but I should have been simultaneously taking thorough notes, for instances such as this one. 

The good habits of reporting accurately are all great tips on their own, but also work more effectively when done together. For example, in this instance, I would have benefited greatly if I had followed the tip of listening carefully, asked more questions and had been transcribing my notes when I initially heard them.

the moments before and after freedom.

I woke up at 4:30 a.m. with a stomachache. That stomachache was more than a reflection of the two dinners I had the night before; it was the result of the nervousness I was feeling. I went in and out of sleep for the next two hours and was ready to be picked up at 7 a.m. sharp. 

Me and the photographer, Justin, decided to leave Columbia a full hour before Jeff Mizanskey would walk out of the prison in Jefferson City. We wanted to be there to capture those first moments of Mizanskey walking out as a free man for the first time in 21 years. 

And then life happened. 

We got stuck in 25 minute bumper-to-bumper traffic, pushing our ETA back from 7:40 to 8:05. Think of how much value is in five minutes, especially in those. Google Maps suggested an alternate route that bought us two minutes of time. So yes, we would have gotten there at 8:03, had there not been a train crossing that we had to stop and wait for. HA. 

We ended up pulling into the Correctional Center at 8:04. By the time I joined the crowd with my notebook, Mizanskey was already giving his statement. Justin also joined the crowd, but with all of his equipment, ready to capture the emotion of relief and freedom. 

We missed it. The initial moment of a man being reunited with his family and friends, had passed. 

As important people took turns behind the podium, a man touched me on the shoulder, asking if I was with a man named Ryan. I didn't recognize the face of this man, nor was I with a Ryan, so I quickly said no. Come to find out, that man was Chris Mizanskey, Jeff's son. Because I had not done my homework, I let an important person tap me on the shoulder and walk away. 

The entire thing happened very fast. I listened intently, gathered a few quotes and then Justin and I were on our way back to Columbia by 8:40 a.m. Don't worry, no traffic this time. 

The rest of my day was spent in the newsroom, working with an editor that taught me many lessons in the short time we worked together. 

Multiple times, she would put a pause on our intense concentration, more for my benefit than her own. 

"You done this before?"

"No."

"You can do it," she said. 

We worked together for five hours, merging two stories together to form one. It was a process of editing, playing puzzle and fact-checking with a few moments of relief, thanks to Elizabeth. 

It felt incredible to sit there and have someone sort through your work, helping your voice and emotion to be heard and felt. Not only to push you and challenge your reason for every sentence written, but at the end of to look at you and tell you what you did well. 

There isn't a right way to teach someone something, but there is a wrong way. The same goes for a lot of things. There isn't a right way to tell a story, but there is a wrong way. That day my editor was right in her way of teaching me something I will never forget, and I was right in telling a story in how I felt it should be told. 

I walked out of the newsroom, feeling accomplished and free. I wandered how Jeff Mizanskey felt when he walked out of prison from being in there 21 years, in comparison to me walking out of the newsroom from being there for five hours. I couldn't wrap my head around it and I wasn't meant to.

How boring life would be if you fully understood someone's story, recognized every face of someone that tapped you on the shoulder, or knew every time that a train crossed. 

There's no freedom in that. 

contributing to the world of journalism.

After sleep deprivation, a road trip to Jeff City to attend a press conference, being stuck in traffic resulting in being late to the press conference, lots of coffee, interviewing, editing and hours in the newsroom, I contributed to my first story as a reporter. I'm doing it, guys. I'm surviving the Columbia Missourian.

I will blog later this week with more of my experience on covering this story!

Here's the story: http://www.columbiamissourian.com/news/state_news/after-years-man-in-marijuana-case-released-from-prison/article_9a92ee36-50c1-11e5-a3e2-1b08593df233.html