bad voodoo juju

Journalism requires a thick skin -- something I'm still working on. Writers deal with rejection on a daily basis -- stories being turned down, people hanging up on us, letters to the editor blasting us because our articles struck a nerve. Sometimes, it's hard not to take it personally.

At the beginning of this week, I was having a particularly crappy time of it, and it was really getting to me. I began to think it was just me, or some deleterious astrological alignment, until I heard other writers complaining about the same thing. This work is difficult in the summer. Everyone is on vacation -- including editors and sources -- and researching slows to a maddening crawl. Phone calls and e-mails going unanswered, sources getting downright hostile (we're blaming it on the heat). Still, I try to remain cheerful, and persistent.

The past few weeks, I've been chasing a number of story ideas and have been talking with pagan charities, survival schools, interfaith environmental groups, athletes, public relations people, and this one extremist cult-like group. It was this last source that sent me down the dark spiral.

They weren't available by telephone, so all of the interviewing and negotiating was happening via e-mail. I would ask a couple of questions, and get a partial response in reply. So I'd jump back on the keyboard to try to coax more out of them, and would get another partial and wary response. This group has been getting some bad press lately. I understand their sensitivity and was trying to reassure them of my intentions and the focus of the article. Still, I was having to make a real pest of myself to get the information I needed -- something I don't enjoy doing, though it's occasionally necessary.

And that's when I got a message from them that really set my teeth on edge.

"They're going to do some bad desert juju on me," I told my witchy friend, Terri, earlier this week at the coffee shop.

"What does the desert have to do with it?"

"They're going to go make some cactus voodoo doll of me and stick scorpion needles in it." I was laughing, but still was shaken. "They hate me. They're going to sic their voodoo juju on me."

"Do you have any idea what you're talking about?" A grin spread across Terri's face.

"Not really. No." I took a sip of tea. I was embarrassed that I'd let this get to me. "I think I just really pissed them off. Occupational hazard." I told her about the questions I'd asked, and the tone of their responses.

"I doubt they hate you." Terri started packing up her purse. "You're a good writer. You're a good person. They're just nervous."

We got up from our table at the coffee shop and headed into the ladies room. "How are your worms doing?" Terri called out to me.

I paused. Worms? I stepped out of the stall. "I'm sorry?"

"Your worms. Worm culture?"

I bent over laughing. "My composting worms. Yes, they're fine. Eating lots of kitchen scraps."

Terri frowned. "What did you think I meant?"

"Well, we're in the bathroom, and out of nowhere you're asking me about my worms...."

Her face reddened as she laughed. "Sorry about that."

"Geez, Terri. You had me worried that their voodoo juju was going to work on me already." It was a weak attempt at humor.

She shook her head and sighed. Terri is an accomplished witch, and she said she had some spells she could recommend if I felt like I needed one to protect myself. "But I think what you really need," she said, "is to take the weekend off."

I saw her point. I needed to take a step back from this story I'd been chasing, and reassess. I could go with what little I had, try another approach, or just let it go. Not every idea makes it from pitch to print.

Bad voodoo juju notwithstanding.