Last week, The Seattle Post-Intelligencer rolled off the presses a final time, offering readers one last opportunity to savor the tactile experience of reading its printed newspaper, of getting newsprint on their fingertips, of following a jump that actually made the reader turn the page (not click a mouse). Then, for the 100,000-plus copies not kept for posterity, the final edition was consigned to the great trash heap of newspapers past. It marked a sudden and pathetic end.
The P-I’s demise was not unexpected. Nor is its story unique. Newspapers have been struggling for years. Circulations are dwindling and along with them precious ad revenues. The predicament of the P-I was particularly dire. It was one of two daily papers—the other being The Seattle Times—in a city that isn’t big like Chicago or New York, where it’s still possible for more than one daily to operate. Not in Seattle, though; there just isn’t enough ad money to go around. Or enough readers. And let’s be honest, were it not for a court-mandated joint operating agreement, one of Seattle’s two papers would have ceased publishing years ago.
Time is running out for the daily paper. Increasing demand for free, instant news and content, the rise of blogs, and the dominance of Craigslist over newspaper classifieds have made it hard for newspapers’ print editions to compete. Moreover, fewer and fewer people read the morning paper as part of their daily routine. Just as readers years ago abandoned evening papers in favor of the evening news TV broadcast, news readers today satisfy their appetite for headline news by clicking, touching, scrolling, browsing, tweeting on laptops and smartphones (never mind that they’re not getting the kind of depth and meaning that only a thick newspaper can offer).
Indeed, newspapers have lost relevance. So it goes. But you’re not reading this particular blog for an analysis of the decline of the daily paper. Let’s move on.
What I will tell you is that demise of the printed P-I has bummed me out in a big way. Part of my identity as a writer and a professional will forever be tied to its masthead. For it was the P-I that employed me at two crucial points in my career.
I came to Seattle in 1997 with few prospects—I had just left another newspaper, Spokane’s Spokesman-Review (which itself is in a world of hurt), but I never imagined I’d write for one of Seattle’s major dailies. Good writers and journalists work there. Hacks like me don’t. But a connection got me in the door and an interview. The P-I’s Features department was looking for a substitute calendar editor, which meant that I would be an on-call employee. Hey, it was something, a way in, and I thought I could supplement my income by contributing music features or concert reviews. The gentleman who interviewed me was the entertainment editor. Dusty was his name. He was a peculiar fellow and was quite terse. He had a poof of graying brown hair and funny little mustache to match. He came outfitted in a tie and neatly pressed dress shirt and slacks, which suggested a corporate bearing more suited for the business desk than the entertainment section of a daily paper in Seattle. As soon as I arrived at the reception area, Dusty pulled me into the break room to interview me. But it wasn’t much an interview—he merely thumbed through my clips. I remember homing in on his furrowed brow, which I took as a bad sign. After a couple of silent minutes, he offered, “Well, we’re not looking for any writers.” Gulp.
Dusty was only partly right, however. Sure enough, I wouldn’t be writing about music, but I would get to perform the tedious task of rewriting press releases for the paper’s various calendar sections. Which was fine, if moderately soul-depleting—I needed the work. And even though I only worked about two weeks a month, the pay was decent, enough to pay the rent on my 200-square-foot box of a studio apartment.
Most people were friendly enough in my department, the Features dept., but they were friendly in a way that was kind of stand-offish, if you know what I mean. I felt like they saw me as more of an administrative assistant: I wasn’t one of them, an editor or a reporter with a byline. But at least they were nice. That's not to say the rest of P-I’s editorial staff was unwelcoming—they just didn’t give me the time of day; I was merely another ghost walking among the cubes. I was accustomed to being ignored. I encountered similar treatment from the majority of The Spokesman-Review’s newsroom. (The Spokesman-Review may not have been The New York Times, but you wouldn’t know it from the egos.) If I had to guess why, I’d say it was simply because I was a features and entertainment writer, not a true reporter. In their estimation, very little of what I wrote mattered; I wrote fluff and was therefore unworthy of their attention. In fact, it wasn’t unusual for me to say hello to someone and not receive as much as a look of acknowledgment in return. So by the time I got to the P-I I was used to being snubbed. No big deal. I put my head down and got to work.
But respect would soon be gained. One Monday morning as I was sorting a fresh stack of press releases, faxes and mail, my editor, Dusty, walked over and said, “Saw your name in the paper yesterday. Congratulations.” My name was in the joint Seattle P-I/Seattle Times Sunday edition, in an article that listed winners of the annual Society of Professional Journalists awards. A story I’d written about the garage rock band The Makers for The Spokesman-Review the previous fall had garnered two SPJs. What’s more, not a single P-I writer was recognized in the two categories in which I received awards. Suddenly, everyone in the department knew who I was. The recognition didn’t net me any writing assignments, though. Then a week later The Rocket came calling and offered me a job as a senior editor. I seem to remember Dusty expressing disappointment, but I wasn’t certain over what. Did I inconvenience him in that he’d now have to find another replacement replacement (yes, I intended the double “replacement”)? Or did he finally regret not letting me write? (If it was the latter, I can certainly understand why I never got any assignments. Even when the economy wasn’t so dire, newspapers’ editorial budgets were tight; space even tighter. Even if Dusty could get me to do some writing, there wouldn’t have been much space since two writers already covered music more or less full time. More likely, however, it was the former.)
So ended my brief first stint at The Seattle Post-Intelligencer.
Three-and-a-half years later, while still at The Rocket, I got a call from the P-I's Peter Blackstock, also co-editor of the recently shuttered alt-country magazine No Depression, who asked if I’d be interested in taking over his weekly music column at the paper. Days later, I found myself back in the P-I’s breakroom with Dusty, the mustachioed entertainment editor, for an interview and a cursory look at my clips (which he reviewed with the same furrowed brow). This time, however, the outcome was better: I would get to write for the P-I, though it would be as a freelancer. Which was fine, I thought; at least I’d have a regular column and a steady paycheck. Plus I wouldn’t have to endure the ambivalence of the P-I’s writers and editors as I walked among them. The timing was perfect, too: The day Dusty offered me the column was the same day The Rocket went bankrupt and closed down (which is a story for another time).
So for the next three years, from 2000 to 2003, I filed about 150 weekly columns and an assortment of other stories for The Seattle Post-Intelligencer. During my second stint, I had little contact with my editor and copyeditor, and the chief pop music writer, Gene Stout (who, I should say, is one of the nicest guys with whom I’ve ever had the pleasure of working) since I did all my work at home. By law, only official employees, not contractors like me, could work from the P-I's offices. So my second interview with Dusty was the last time I actually set foot in the newspaper’s building. My printed byline mingled with more writers than I did.
In assessing the work I did the P-I, I can’t say that I'm particularly proud of much. By the time I was done with a piece, I hated it, especially during this particular period of my life. I had grown tired of writing and writing on deadline. Eleven years of constant deadlines necessitated a break. So while I might not have enjoyed writing them, a few stories come to mind which came out fairly good: a decent review of a Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds concert, a Big Star story I liked, an interview with Jawbox alum J. Robbins for his new band Burning Airlines (the story was slated to run the Friday after 9/11; it got killed), interviews with legends Wanda Jackson and Ike Turner (yes, I asked him if he abused Tina. He denied it), a profile of the White Stripes (Meg White wasn’t the best interview, but she was nice) and interviews with heroes Nick Cave, the Melvins and Stephen Malkmus. Maybe I’ll link to some of these columns in a future post (after all, an abridged online P-I lives on) or present the unedited originals (which weren’t all that different—one thing I loved about my editors is that they left my copy alone). We’ll see…
Farewell, Seattle P-I. You were very good to me.
The P-I’s demise was not unexpected. Nor is its story unique. Newspapers have been struggling for years. Circulations are dwindling and along with them precious ad revenues. The predicament of the P-I was particularly dire. It was one of two daily papers—the other being The Seattle Times—in a city that isn’t big like Chicago or New York, where it’s still possible for more than one daily to operate. Not in Seattle, though; there just isn’t enough ad money to go around. Or enough readers. And let’s be honest, were it not for a court-mandated joint operating agreement, one of Seattle’s two papers would have ceased publishing years ago.
Time is running out for the daily paper. Increasing demand for free, instant news and content, the rise of blogs, and the dominance of Craigslist over newspaper classifieds have made it hard for newspapers’ print editions to compete. Moreover, fewer and fewer people read the morning paper as part of their daily routine. Just as readers years ago abandoned evening papers in favor of the evening news TV broadcast, news readers today satisfy their appetite for headline news by clicking, touching, scrolling, browsing, tweeting on laptops and smartphones (never mind that they’re not getting the kind of depth and meaning that only a thick newspaper can offer).
Indeed, newspapers have lost relevance. So it goes. But you’re not reading this particular blog for an analysis of the decline of the daily paper. Let’s move on.
What I will tell you is that demise of the printed P-I has bummed me out in a big way. Part of my identity as a writer and a professional will forever be tied to its masthead. For it was the P-I that employed me at two crucial points in my career.
I came to Seattle in 1997 with few prospects—I had just left another newspaper, Spokane’s Spokesman-Review (which itself is in a world of hurt), but I never imagined I’d write for one of Seattle’s major dailies. Good writers and journalists work there. Hacks like me don’t. But a connection got me in the door and an interview. The P-I’s Features department was looking for a substitute calendar editor, which meant that I would be an on-call employee. Hey, it was something, a way in, and I thought I could supplement my income by contributing music features or concert reviews. The gentleman who interviewed me was the entertainment editor. Dusty was his name. He was a peculiar fellow and was quite terse. He had a poof of graying brown hair and funny little mustache to match. He came outfitted in a tie and neatly pressed dress shirt and slacks, which suggested a corporate bearing more suited for the business desk than the entertainment section of a daily paper in Seattle. As soon as I arrived at the reception area, Dusty pulled me into the break room to interview me. But it wasn’t much an interview—he merely thumbed through my clips. I remember homing in on his furrowed brow, which I took as a bad sign. After a couple of silent minutes, he offered, “Well, we’re not looking for any writers.” Gulp.
Dusty was only partly right, however. Sure enough, I wouldn’t be writing about music, but I would get to perform the tedious task of rewriting press releases for the paper’s various calendar sections. Which was fine, if moderately soul-depleting—I needed the work. And even though I only worked about two weeks a month, the pay was decent, enough to pay the rent on my 200-square-foot box of a studio apartment.
Most people were friendly enough in my department, the Features dept., but they were friendly in a way that was kind of stand-offish, if you know what I mean. I felt like they saw me as more of an administrative assistant: I wasn’t one of them, an editor or a reporter with a byline. But at least they were nice. That's not to say the rest of P-I’s editorial staff was unwelcoming—they just didn’t give me the time of day; I was merely another ghost walking among the cubes. I was accustomed to being ignored. I encountered similar treatment from the majority of The Spokesman-Review’s newsroom. (The Spokesman-Review may not have been The New York Times, but you wouldn’t know it from the egos.) If I had to guess why, I’d say it was simply because I was a features and entertainment writer, not a true reporter. In their estimation, very little of what I wrote mattered; I wrote fluff and was therefore unworthy of their attention. In fact, it wasn’t unusual for me to say hello to someone and not receive as much as a look of acknowledgment in return. So by the time I got to the P-I I was used to being snubbed. No big deal. I put my head down and got to work.
But respect would soon be gained. One Monday morning as I was sorting a fresh stack of press releases, faxes and mail, my editor, Dusty, walked over and said, “Saw your name in the paper yesterday. Congratulations.” My name was in the joint Seattle P-I/Seattle Times Sunday edition, in an article that listed winners of the annual Society of Professional Journalists awards. A story I’d written about the garage rock band The Makers for The Spokesman-Review the previous fall had garnered two SPJs. What’s more, not a single P-I writer was recognized in the two categories in which I received awards. Suddenly, everyone in the department knew who I was. The recognition didn’t net me any writing assignments, though. Then a week later The Rocket came calling and offered me a job as a senior editor. I seem to remember Dusty expressing disappointment, but I wasn’t certain over what. Did I inconvenience him in that he’d now have to find another replacement replacement (yes, I intended the double “replacement”)? Or did he finally regret not letting me write? (If it was the latter, I can certainly understand why I never got any assignments. Even when the economy wasn’t so dire, newspapers’ editorial budgets were tight; space even tighter. Even if Dusty could get me to do some writing, there wouldn’t have been much space since two writers already covered music more or less full time. More likely, however, it was the former.)
So ended my brief first stint at The Seattle Post-Intelligencer.
Three-and-a-half years later, while still at The Rocket, I got a call from the P-I's Peter Blackstock, also co-editor of the recently shuttered alt-country magazine No Depression, who asked if I’d be interested in taking over his weekly music column at the paper. Days later, I found myself back in the P-I’s breakroom with Dusty, the mustachioed entertainment editor, for an interview and a cursory look at my clips (which he reviewed with the same furrowed brow). This time, however, the outcome was better: I would get to write for the P-I, though it would be as a freelancer. Which was fine, I thought; at least I’d have a regular column and a steady paycheck. Plus I wouldn’t have to endure the ambivalence of the P-I’s writers and editors as I walked among them. The timing was perfect, too: The day Dusty offered me the column was the same day The Rocket went bankrupt and closed down (which is a story for another time).
So for the next three years, from 2000 to 2003, I filed about 150 weekly columns and an assortment of other stories for The Seattle Post-Intelligencer. During my second stint, I had little contact with my editor and copyeditor, and the chief pop music writer, Gene Stout (who, I should say, is one of the nicest guys with whom I’ve ever had the pleasure of working) since I did all my work at home. By law, only official employees, not contractors like me, could work from the P-I's offices. So my second interview with Dusty was the last time I actually set foot in the newspaper’s building. My printed byline mingled with more writers than I did.
In assessing the work I did the P-I, I can’t say that I'm particularly proud of much. By the time I was done with a piece, I hated it, especially during this particular period of my life. I had grown tired of writing and writing on deadline. Eleven years of constant deadlines necessitated a break. So while I might not have enjoyed writing them, a few stories come to mind which came out fairly good: a decent review of a Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds concert, a Big Star story I liked, an interview with Jawbox alum J. Robbins for his new band Burning Airlines (the story was slated to run the Friday after 9/11; it got killed), interviews with legends Wanda Jackson and Ike Turner (yes, I asked him if he abused Tina. He denied it), a profile of the White Stripes (Meg White wasn’t the best interview, but she was nice) and interviews with heroes Nick Cave, the Melvins and Stephen Malkmus. Maybe I’ll link to some of these columns in a future post (after all, an abridged online P-I lives on) or present the unedited originals (which weren’t all that different—one thing I loved about my editors is that they left my copy alone). We’ll see…
Farewell, Seattle P-I. You were very good to me.
