Writing A Lead

When the story blows over, I find solace in a generic risk, taken with a cheap high and wolf kiss from Guardian. I find the journalist puzzles shift in frame of retrospect, once you end a concentrated work and siphon off your stress in a premeditated break. I chance sky-diving, cliff-jumping, and water ballet. It is worth the venture, every time. My next notable event infallibly exceeds the last.

After a few articles left me pitching in gusts of fever and paranoid schizoaffective syndromes that kept my legs dangling above floorboards, Guardian and I trekked the desert and donned matching tourist-type caps in a hot air balloon. For a fox terrier, Guardian is pretty small. The guide nearly had a seizure when she found Guardian’s head poking out of my purse. How could I have guessed smuggling dogs aboard might lead to unfortunate hyper-urination? I wanted to hold Guardian over the edge; it was pretty pungent. However, the lady called it unsafe practice, a blaring hazard actually, but she might have assumed I was not of sound mind to discern proper ballooning conduct; she hailed Mary when we touched ground.

Writing a lead is kind of like touching global grounds. It’s a landing point for the reader. They rarely read beyond the first portion of an article that doesn’t reach home. It has to be clipped in immediate prominence, proximity, universal interest, and other Journalism 101 fundamentals.

In my opinion, written media are a burden. News should all be sound-bytes. But, though a trial at times, writing is also the sound of hope for me. It’s as effective as the dust of high school theaters in evoking a scent of safety, and when properly executed, tastes better than coffee smells.

A story trades sniffing connotations, until original scents of cited word is sprayed over in metaphor and relative importance. But it’s also the touch of a new geography, to be swallowed and incepted with a quake of mild extremity and cheesy vacation for every step on well-covered soil.