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First, the obvious: Ive been terrified about making this speech.

Pretended it wasnt going to happen. Let the days tick off,

occasionally checking in with MPA sage Jeff Ham, When is the

banquet again? Oct. 13? Oh, right. How long do I have to speak? 10

minutes! Wow. Thats a long time.My procrastination hit me last night as I sat down to write these

remarks. I had no words. No speech. Just fear. And paralysis.The feeling reminded me of the first time I sat down to write a story on

deadline. It was a tryout assignment at the Concord Monitor in New

Hampshire. It was 1996.I was assigned to cover a cross-country meet in Manchester. Noproblem, right? Stand at the starting line watch the runners go, move

to the finish line, interview the winners, file a story. Go home.So thats what I did. Or started to. The interviews were fine. It was the

writing, the deadline, that killed me. I froze as I sat there staring at the

black screen and the blinking -- mocking -- blue cursor (yeah, it was

that long ago; we were still cutting and pasting columns to make the

paper; the internet, we accessed that on a single computer).

Anyway, I suddenly remembered why I dropped out of journalism

school at the University of New Hampshire and went for an English

degree and minor in political science. Journalism, I suddenly

remembered, was HARD.Remember, this was a cross-country race. To say that I was writing on

deadline is overstating it. These kids run in the morning. The races

are typically over in 30 minutes. My deadline was 7 p.m.I wrote the lede, rewrote it, started again. I wanted it to be good,

compelling, to please the editors. Finally, I just wanted it to be done. I

had this sick feeling that I should just quit. This pressure, this

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business, wasnt for me, I thought. I nearly walked out of the

newsroom and kissed off newspapers forever.Then, with about 30 minutes left, something happened. I finished the

story. I dont know how, it was a blur. The finished product was crap. Ihated it. Id be lucky if the Monitor paid me the $20 for the tryout.Instead, they gave me a job. Part-time. Six bucks an hour.

I stayed there for almost four years. It was the best decision I ever

made. The Monitor did for me what college didnt: It taught me how

much a job -- this job -- can matter.

I covered high school, college and professional sports. Some of thenews people in here may think that covering sports isnt serious

journalism, but it is. It was especially true at the Monitor.At the time, the papers executive editor was Mike Pride. He was a

panelist on the Pulitzer board. He hired young reporters straight out

of college, gave them a chance. He also had no problem cutting them

loose if they faltered.He was tough. And he liked sports.Mike never said much. Compliments were scarce. Critiques frequent.

When he walked into the newsroom reporters either made themselves

small behind their monitors or, for those that thought they had filed a

decent story, looked up at him, hoping, pleading that he would speak

the magical words of validation: GOOD STORY.

He rarely did.

At some point during my first year at the Monitor, Mike called me into

his office. This was not good. My work wasnt up to standard, he said.

I had 30 days to improve. Otherwise, he said, it may be time to

consider a different career path.

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To say I was devastated is an understatement. I spent the next 48

hours feeling sorry for myself. And then I got angry.I could do this job. I was determined to prove it to Mike and everybody

else.I still remember that conversation, that feeling. To this day, I still use

it.Whenever I feel good about a story, I tell myself that Mike Pride

probably wouldnt like it. It can always be better. I can always be

better.

So, remember when I started off saying today that I was terrifiedabout making this speech? Well, thats nothing compared to the fear I

felt nearly one year ago.Let me explain: When Sun Journal editor Judy Meyer -- one of my

journalism idols, by the way -- was called to the stage in Northport

last year to announce who had won Journalist of the Year, I knew

after a few sentences that it was me. (Something about dont piss him

off was the tip-off).Its hard to describe the mixed feelings that I had. I was surprised ...

proud ... but mostly afraid.I knew that people were going to say nice things about my work.

Everybody likes compliments. I like compliments.But I was afraid that Id start to BELIEVE the accolades. There are probably self-serving reasons for this state of mind, but

somewhere along the way I came to believe that this job that that we

do is important. It has to be important. If not, why the sacrifices to

family, friends and health? The long hours? The never-go-back

submersion into cynicism and dark humor? THE FLAT BUTT?

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Listen, this IS important work. Especially now. Sure, our industry is

searching -- desperately -- for ways to remain financially stable and

still deliver a product that the public will find useful -- MAYBE EVEN

PAY FOR.But despite these challenges, this is no time to feel sorry for

ourselves. And its certainly no time to be complacent.Our numbers are down. Way down.Some of us are hiring, sure, but really, were just trying to get back to

where we once were.

Last years conference in Northport felt a bit like a funeral. Just oneday before the MPA conference -- almost a year ago today -- Maine

Today Media -- the company that I now work for -- announced that 61

people had lost their jobs. Sixty-one people.Even before that the Press Herald -- all of us -- watched as good

people left our industry. Those that remained were left to soldier on,

put out a paper, maybe even do some journalism.Doing journalism has never been easy. Ours is a job of fighting those

that would rather avoid tough questions. With fewer of us, fewer

tough questions have been asked. Sometimes we were lucky to put

out a paper that told people what was happening, let alone one that

explained what the news actually meant.The people we cover -- government officials, politicians, cops -- know

that we are weak. They know that we are desperate, outgunned and

grasping for ways to remain viable.Our transition to the web has changed everything, for good and for ill.We can research faster than ever before. We can promote our work to

audiences that far exceed traditional print coverage areas. But that

reach has yet to yield financial stability.

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The immediacy of the web has meant sacrifices in accuracy,

credibility, depth -- and in some cases -- a dereliction of our watchdog

duties.Our new religion -- digital first -- has sometimes put us in a reactive

mode. Press releases are rewritten. The most provocative dispatches

are often dutifully rebroadcast without fact checks, or context.The people we cover -- especially in politics -- understand this new

dynamic. They have become masters of directing our coverage,

controlling the news cycle. As a result, we sometimes chase the

bright, shiny things, instead of looking in the dark corners, the places

theyd rather we didnt look.In addition, theres a growing sentiment that we cant be trusted. I

recently read a story on Poynter that our approval rating is near

congressional levels. This is not good.Granted, this public sentiment is spurred by those who encourage

distrust in our profession. They are the same people who would

rather we werent around to check them, call their misinformation and

misdeeds. Their claims of bias are their weapon against scrutiny.

Remember that. They know that our ranks are small -- small enough

to be drowned in a bathtub.So, you see, that is why I was afraid when Judy Meyer called my name

last year. This is no time to stop, admire and believe the compliments.

This is no time for complacency, not with these challenges.

I need to be better. We all do.Thank you very much for listening.