Can I learn from my past mistakes?

Can you? I relive a time I badly messed up in my journalist career and what I took from that moment...

Jun 05, 2023

(where I write)

I’m going to tell you a story about a time I fucked up. But before I do, can I ask that you don’t judge me too harshly? As I’d like to add in a caveat here that it was a long time ago, that I’ve learned from it, that it won’t happen again. But I can’t promise that. I don’t know if anyone can. But that’s me rushing to my conclusion, before I’ve even set the scene.

I was working as a junior writer on a weight loss magazine. Most of my day-to-day role involved pulling together the ‘eat this, not that’ pages, calling in image cut outs of fitness clothing and, sometimes, even writing the beauty articles… Thrilling because that meant free! stuff!

I loved the job because it was varied, I was new to the industry and I got to try on different guises as to what sort of magazine journalist I wanted to be. Was it fashion? Beauty? Fitness? Health? I said yes to every article I was offered, and began to tune into what stories I loved the most.

Those were the real-life stories, sitting down with women (mostly) and hearing about their lives. About one third of each story I wrote had to be devoted to how they discovered this particular weight-loss programme, and their tips as to how it fit into their lives. I found that part boring, it mostly sounded the same. But the lives that surrounded that story were… I don’t want to say ‘interesting’ or ‘fascinating’ or indeed choose any one word to reflect what I heard. These were big, complicated, varied tales of different lives led. I spoke to those who escaped domestic abuse relationships, those who had lost their children. I also spoke to people whose lives weren’t particularly remarkable, just ordinary existences impacted by an uncomfortable unease in their bodies.

I’d sit with them for an hour, sometimes two, usually in a quiet corner of a photographer’s studio, them in their jewel-tone dresses, their hair expertly tousled. I took a great deal of care in how I did these interviews , a skill that has undoubtedly impacted the career I went on to have. Asking people about their weight, their self-image… that’s grasping at deep, tightly tangled threads, pulling out hidden, scary wounds. We’d often look at old pictures, and I’d ask “how did you feel in this moment?” I was asking them to examine things that they’d long since buried.

I’d like to add in here that this experience, I believe, for the majority of them, was important. Exciting even. We found the people we interviewed as they wrote into us, they wanted to have their story chosen for the magazine. We paid for them (accompanied often by a friend or family member) to come to London, get all dressed up, with professional styling and make-up and feel… I guess… like a celebrity for the day. Of course, I can’t fact check this. I can only go on my memory of a time, over a decade ago, and the messages I received afterwards thanking us. But I worked there for five years, I must have interviewed hundreds of different people and their experience and memories could be very different from mine.

Now, deep breath, for the time I fucked up. I’m cautious even to write this here, for you all to read, as I don’t want her to feel I’m taking her story again, and publishing it for my own gain. So I’ll try and keep the details surrounding it as vague as possible, while also trying to convey how it happened and what I (hopefully) learned from this. She was one of our cover stars, and one of the first times I’d been given this assignment which, at that stage in my career, was a really big deal. The theme of the issue was going to be fashion and she was going to tell her story through different outfits she’d worn throughout the years. But, as I interviewed her, another story emerged: she’d had an unexpected, surprise pregnancy. When I filed, that part of her story almost skimmed over, my editor asked me to re-write, with this new angle. We’d had a long chat, I could go back to my transcript easily, all the details needed were there. I did as I was told, and the magazine went to press.

The story blindsided her. She had no idea that we were going to go so big on her pregnancy. The fashion part of the story? What she’d been told was the focus? A tiny box out on the page. Her family called, furious at us. Furious at me. When I tell other journalists this story some scoff, they say “what did she expect? She sat down, with a journalist, and told you all these details about her private life. Of course that story was much more interesting than the other fashion one, she should have known that.” That never eased my guilt and I still feel sick thinking of her back then, excited at the magazine landing thud on her door mat, and then realising how public her private life had become. All because she trusted me.

She trusted me and I let other things get in the way of that. Because I can’t sit here and say I didn’t know it would upset her. I had this deep uncomfortable feeling that I should speak to her again, double check with her that it was OK to publish this stuff. But I squashed it, letting my ego, my ambition take over.

Perhaps you’re reading this and thinking “that was over 15 years ago Katie, why are you still dwelling on it?” I’m chastising myself for how sick I feel re-telling that story, something that - in the grand scheme of things - is quite small. I apologised, her family dropped the complaint. A month later a new magazine was out.

It’s one of these strange stories that we all carry, where something I think about could be a long forgotten memory for her. Or, it could have changed her life’s trajectory in a way I’ll never know.

I thought of it this week as I frantically tried to think of a topic for this newsletter, conscious that I’ve promised one each week and - due to other deadlines - haven’t delivered on time. I became aware of how easy it is for journalists to forget that the people and topics we are dealing with are huge. We sit and tap, tap, tap away and can, very easily, neglect to think about the impact our words have not just on the reader of the story, but the person whose story we are telling.

Since that day I have taken precautions, I now offer read-backs (where I call up and read the story I’ve written down the phone to fact-check) and I’ll send questions over in advance, particularly when dealing with those who are having to relive trauma. I say to my interviewees “I’m going to ask these questions but if you don’t want to answer them, I will move on, I won’t press further.” I tell them to get in touch any time if they suddenly reflect on our interview and think they’ve said too much. I tell them I’ll remove that detail.

Others in my profession might say these precautions get in the way of telling a good story, that I am giving my interview subjects too much power. They may be right. After all, we often can’t see the truth in ourselves the way a third party can. For the truth to emerge we have to let go of the control we cling onto, we have to let others tell our story and see ourselves through their eyes. So… I don’t know what’s right. This could be a real flaw in how good I am at my job. But I also don’t ever want to forget how important it is to care. To think about the impact my words have, how very different it is to read your life on paper, than it is to tell it to someone.

But, as Monday rolls around again, and my inbox fills up with questions and edits and my to-do list gets harder, and harder to control, I do forget all of that. I want to get it all off my desk, check-boxes off a list and feel accomplished. I’m no longer fighting for a byline, for the top job, but - just like with that initial story - I am more than capable of letting my selfish needs damage someone’s reality.

I need to be aware of that with this newsletter as well. As while I am cautious when doing all of those guest posts (if you’d like me to interview you, more details here) I am less cautious when thinking of how my words could impact my family, my friends, the people who I love who went through the moments I write about. I don’t double check that the ‘advice’ I’m saying isn’t misinterpreted, or fact check some of the things I type. I rush out letters in order meet my own deadlines each week and I don’t pause and consider what I’m saying, who I’m saying it about. I do, to some degree, but not enough. Then, once it’s out there, I am so frantically thinking about what the next letter will say I don’t take enough time to respond to your thoughtful, emotional comments.

It’s why I can’t promise I won’t fuck up again. Life’s a treadmill and we’re all just doing our best to keep going on it. Also, while one of the joys of Substack is that it gives freedom and a voice to so many, it also means you don’t have editors, sub-editors, like you do with more traditional press. Other people who are SO VALUABLE, particularly subs, and who are a second eye and can cautiously point out the things the writer may have missed/not thought about.

So while I wasn’t going to write anything at all this week and I was simply going to tell you all how I’m really busy, with the work that pays my bills, on deadline and encourage you to sign up to become a paid subscriber, I decided this morning I wanted to tell this (self-indulgent) story as to why - for the next fortnight - I’m going to take a break. Pre-plan some content and think carefully about it. Reply to people who have emailed me. Think of where I want to go next. I don’t want to repeat mistakes and the only way I can stop that from happening is to take some time.

Thank you, as always, for being here.

Crocuses in the snow

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