72395873289

I’m such a blabbermouth that, if I know too much, I’m not sure I’ll listen as well as when I’m out of
my depth and floundering. My vulnerability is important to reporting, too. It can be quite
uncomfortable to have orchid growers yapping at me in Latin, and having to say that I don’t
understand. It is crucial for me to stay receptive and impressionable, to keep worrying. It is like a
stubborn sore; it is a little painful, but it keeps me more open.
I usually start doing my book learning once I’ve picked up a little knowledge and understand better
what I have to know.
Where did you learn how to be a reporter?
I had done no reporting at all when I was graduated from college. The only thing I’d done in
college, aside from academic writing, was poetry and one book review.
After college, I went to Oregon and was hired as a reporter at a little publication called Paper
Rose. We were taught nothing, so I made it up as I went along. At my second job I had an editor who
had worked at The Wall Street Journal and was much more of an instructor/editor. He taught me a lot
about how you report, as well as the ethical and legal aspects of reporting. That was a very important
experience for me.
Do you have a reporting routine?
The beginning of the reporting phase is very hard. It’s often very upsetting. I keep wondering,
“What am I doing? What’s this about? What’s the story here? Maybe this isn’t such a good idea?” I
feel quite lost.
I’ll call the local newspaper and introduce myself, and ask whether anyone wants to have a drink.
I’ll wander around and poke into stores and coffee shops and chat with storekeepers. I like to visit the
junk stores to see what kinds of objects people here have cast away. I drive around a lot just looking.
I try to get a kind of street sense of what I’m writing about. A lot of times I’m looking for one person
who will introduce me to the next level, the level that isn’t as obvious.
For example, when I was writing about Midland, Texas, where George W. Bush has his ranch, I
wandered into a downtown coffee shop and struck up a conversation with a guy who, miraculously
enough, turned out to be a retired oil guy [“Letter from Texas: A Place Called Midland,” The New
Yorker, October 16–23, 2000]. He drove me around and showed me stuff. I called the oil reporter at
the local paper. I was trying to peel apart the town and get a feel for it. My question was, “What is it
about this town that Bush makes such a big deal about being from?”
Is the way you report in a foreign country very different from the way you report in the U.S.?
Not speaking the language changes everything. The lucky accident of overhearing a conversation,
the chance meeting—that’s all missing. Even though I speak French, I’m not able to pick things up
easily. I’ve written a number of stories from Spanish-speaking countries, where I rely on an
interpreter, which is frustrating.