Pacing. Only two hours to go. Deadline is at noon.

I got an early jump on it only to change it three more times. But every copy I produce- worthless.

I started writing about my father. Then I wrote about dropping my phone in a giant puddle during a tropical storm.

Trying to write a masterpiece, but I am left with a pile of meaningless words. The connection I cannot make. What do these events have to do with me, my work or my career? They don't.

I keep trying to make significance out of moments that just aren't that significant. All of these moments, worthless.

Everybody else can pinpoint one time or a series of events that led to a revelation. Me ... I got nothing. I'm worthless.

I get up from the computer. I have to clear my head. I walk down the hallways of The Poynter Institute, to the giant ball of type: Charles Parkhill's the Messenger. I had passed it a few times, and on occasion, I had stopped to read some of the words trapped inside of it, hidden to the eye.

Editorial. Lead. Beat. Who, what, when, where, why and how.

But at that moment, I notice a word I had never seen before.

Confident.

I stood there.

I pondered.

Why hadn't I noticed it before?

Had my eyes been drawn to it for a reason?

Thoughts began racing in my head.

This could be my moment.

Thinking, reflecting, looking back at my work in journalism, I have found that I am my own worst critic. As cliché as it may sound, it's true.

I never like the work I produce.

As a reporter, I used to rip my stories apart, word for word. I couldn't develop a structure; my flow wasn't fluid.

Had I continued as a reporter, I was destined to be a homeless failure. I found myself designing pages and enjoying slight success.

However, my illustrations are never good enough. My designs are never stellar.

Awards come and go, and for a brief moment, I am happy. But I always think, "I could've done more and it could have been that much better."

Nothing is ever good enough. I nitpick until I cannot take it anymore. I have colleagues, friends, parents who try to reassure me. They say my designs look great. They lie. I don't believe them.

The doubt started with a simple comment from a friend of mine: The day you begin to think you are good is the day you begin to suck.

I remember that every day while sitting in the newsroom.

Before coming to Poynter, I wondered why me, why was I selected? Before that, I wondered how I had gotten a job at The Arizona Republic. And even before that, I wondered how I got involved in "The Intern" competition last year that had landed me in both of those spots.

I'm not that good. I'm a fraud. A pretender.


The day I begin to boast, the day I begin to brag, the day I begin to get a big head, is the day I will lose my job to somebody half my age with twice my ability.

I return to the giant ball of words to get a second look. It is then, that I realize the word "confident" is actually a portion a bigger word, confidential.

Worthless, once again.

But I know what I saw within that ball of type. It spoke to me. Really.

Confidence was something I had been lacking during my time at Poynter. For five weeks, I witnessed the creative work of the other designers. My work couldn't compare.

Hudson Hornet was the crotchety old racecar in the Disney film "Cars." One of the great philosophers of modern times, he said it best when he described all the awards and trophies a car could win. "They're nothing but empty cups." After striving to win the immediate prize, I had failed to see the ultimate satisfaction of being happy with what I have accomplished.

I go back to the giant ball of type one more time. A new word floats to the surface:

Worthy. That's right, worthy. I'm worthy.

I look again, Oh, wait, that was "newsworthy."

Nevermind. The moment's gone.



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