SPECIAL REPORT
Wonder what's behind this door?
On Feb. 4, 1986, I entered a newsroom for the first time as a professional journalist.

I was a “professional journalist” in my own mind, at least. In reality, I was a 17-year-old senior in high school, hired for a very clerical position in the sports department of the Anytown Daily Bugle. My stated duties were to answer phones in the sports department, transcribe scores, take information from callers and do whatever the full-timers wanted me to do.

But the management had heard me express interest in being a writer, so they decided to test me with an assignment during that first week. My first bylined story appeared on Sunday, Feb. 9, 1986. I became one of the full-timers a year and a half later. From there I moved on to experience every aspect of the newsgathering process, and used some very latent artistic skill to settle into a niche as a page designer who had a knack for making the computer do whatever I wanted it to do.

I’ve done a lot of different things as a “professional journalist.” I’ve worked at four different newspapers; from Anytown to Cincinnati to the Edge to the Very Large Metropolitan Area, back to the Edge. I’ve written stories, edited copy, designed pages, drawn graphics, managed projects, supervised people and even took photos for a story a couple of times. I’ve learned a lot, won a few minor awards and the respect of the people with whom I’ve worked. I’ve made a good deal of money, more than many people who do this job.

Best of all, I’ve done exactly what I wanted to do with my life. And, from Feb. 4, 1986, to where I sit right now, I always said that as soon as it felt like “work,” I’d quit and go do something else.

Easier said than done, of course. In 1988, when I was given a full-time job and could actually call myself a bona fide “professional journalist” without fear of contradiction, I celebrated by quitting college. I knew even then that decision would shackle me to the news business for the rest of my life. I was OK with that 15 years ago. I was OK with that five years ago.

But somewhere along the way, my job has started to feel more and more like work. Tough cookies for me; as a rapidly aging white male, my window of opportunity was about to close on my craned neck.

I didn’t plan it this way, but this is how it will happen:

On Feb. 4, 2004 – 18 years to the day after I dubbed myself a “professional journalist” – I will make good on that boast to “quit when it becomes ‘work.’ ” I’ll walk out of a newsroom as a journalist for the last time.

I’ve accepted a position with a software company that specializes in products for newspapers, magazines and web sites. I’ll be helping to design and implement “Content Management Systems,” basically big databases which hold all the electronic tools necessary to get the news from notebook to print to the web. I’ll be training people to make the computer do whatever they want it to do.

I’ve been making a lot of noise about leaving the newspaper business for the better part of the last two years (see here, and here and, well, here too). The time had long since passed for me to quit bitching and start looking. My first idea was to get serious about finishing my formal education, and that was my original plan for 2004. Then this opportunity came up – the software company was looking for people with newsroom experience to help implement its system in newsrooms. I can bring “newsroom experience” to the table, 18 years’ worth. The rest of it, I figure, I’ll learn as I go.

It’s the first real “job” I’ve ever had. I’ve signed a bunch of non-disclosure agreements and non-compete clauses and other business-y like stuff. I’ll be working with business people and sales people and technogeeks rather than creative people with a nose for the truth.

In past jobs, I’d have to travel for business once, maybe twice a year. In this job, I’ll be traveling to two, maybe three states in a given week. The posting said “50 percent travel;” the people with whom I interviewed say during busy times, it’ll be more like 70 percent. I’ll be a “business traveler.” Right now, I find that kind of cool. In three years, I’m sure I’ll be weary of it.

And yeah, we’ll have to move from the house that we really like in the city we really like. After school’s out in May, we’ll be seeking another house we really like, 90 miles to the west, on the Western Edge.

The money will be good, marginally better than I’m currently earning. The opportunities for advancement will largely be determined by me. Yeah, it’s a volatile industry, but this company seems to be particularly well-positioned to be a player as the new trends in publishing – particularly the electronic variety -- emerge. (Now, that sentence sounded like a Business Person, didn’t it? See how quickly I adapt.) Most of all, I’ll be living my life according to a reasonably set, planned schedule, and won’t be knocked off track by space shuttles falling out of the sky or terrorists blowing stuff up in Morocco or election cycles. I’ll have my holidays and most of my weekends. When I’m not on the road, I’ll be working 8:30-5:30 Monday through Friday, a work schedule that is the envy of all journalists. Even with all the travel, it can be argued I’ll get more time with my family than I get in my current job. Nothing is more important than that.

I’m not going to be terribly far from my basic skill set, and I’m not going to be far from the business in which I’ve spent my entire life. But in some ways, I’ll be a million miles away.

In other words, it’s everything for which I’ve been asking.

Onward, immediately, to the next thing. On Feb. 4, I’ll walk out of the newsroom as a journalist for the last time. I’ll board a plane that night and start our new life on Feb. 5. Not much time for reflection. Certainly no time for sadness or regret.

And, for the first time in a long time, I’m looking forward to the next 18 years of my career.