Author Archives: Taylor Soule

New places impact identity

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Gray, felt walls created a maze in the top floor of the old Younkers building in downtown Des Moines. For my father, then a buyer at the department store, the cramped space and eternal din of the fax machine represented the practical: a way to make money and advance his career. For my younger sister Tara and I, they represented a trip to the top of the world.

As suit-clad bigwigs waltzed by en route to the famed Younkers Tea Room, I entered the Iowa definition of a fairy tale. Delicate crown molding and gold trim decorated the Tea Room. I can’t remember what I ordered (probably grilled cheese, given I was an even pickier eater then than I am now), but I began to realize the power of place in those childhood outings to the Younkers Tea Room.

That power felt particularly real in January, when I traveled to Turkey for J-term. I couldn’t comprehend much of the language, but I felt at once at home and in another world. New places, I realized, have a way of linking the familiar and unfamiliar in the perfect balance, forcing me to reflect on — and adapt — my identity. While the Tea Room let me try on the identity of a queen, Turkey helped me find my wanderer identity.

The power of place hit me again in March 29, when the Younkers building — and my beloved Tea Room — caught fire. Though a large portion of the iconic building burned down, I cling to the memory of the gold trim and the coveted kids’ meal toy, a miniature ceramic plate hand-painted with a pink tulip. Somewhere between the tangible memory of gold accents and doll-sized dinnerware, I realized the role of place in the never-ending creation of my identity.

Editing, broadcasting experiences redefine future plans

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Happy equals certain. I long equated the two, convinced that planning — the knowledge of where I would go next and ultimately, who I would become in the future — led to fulfillment. And it did, for a while, anyway. I could depend on my color-coded calendar to guide me to the next meeting, week, month, year. But junior year marked the end of that beloved equation, and weirdly enough, I’m content with the change.

Before the year began, I had my life largely figured out: I would love being editor-in-chief of The Times-Delphic at Drake. That experience would inevitably lead to a summer internship at some big-name daily newspaper. After graduating in December, I would get a full-time reporter job at the same big-name daily.

Though I loved my time editing the TD this past school year, I admit it made me rethink my longtime plan to be an editor. Leading the bright, quirky TD staff taught me accountability and patience, but I missed the thrill of reporting and writing — that beautiful moment of finally securing an interview with the source. You know the one I’m talking about: the one you’ve been playing phone tag with all week, the one who gives your story that final, essential nugget of insight.

That certainty for the future got even muddier when I delved into the realm of TV field photography this semester. As the packages and editing got more complicated — and as I grew more comfortable with the work — my plan grew murkier. I reached a turning point when a friend recently asked me the quintessential college question: “What are you doing after graduation?” And for the first time since, well, ever, I didn’t have a ready-made reply.

“I don’t know,” became my go-to. After a few paralyzing moments of, “I, uh, um, well, I don’t really know yet,” I redefined certainty — and created a new reply to go with it: “I don’t know. I could write for a daily paper. I could work at a broadcasting station. But I could go into web management. Maybe social media.” It’s in that reply I’ve found a new kind of certainty. Wherever I go after my graduation in December, I’m certain change is the only guarantee — and I like it that way.

After three years of working in the print world, I’ll make a big change May 20 when I begin my job as a communications assistant at the Science Center of Iowa. There, I’ll be blogging, working with social media and editing and producing video. And when my future work friends ask me what I’m going to do after graduation, I know exactly how I’ll reply.

Video experience inspires editor to step outside comfort zone

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Bilingual: That’s what my academic advisor calls me.

I didn’t magically pick up Turkish during my two-week January term, and I barely remember, “Me llamo Taylor,” from my high school Spanish days.

Yet, as a news-Internet and English writing dual degree, I’m bilingual. When I write for The Times-Delphic, the semiweekly newspaper I run, I streamline my language. When I write a 25-page personal essay, I stretch my language.

This spring, I’ve added a third “language” to that jarring mix: video.

When I learned I’d be taking a video field photography course, I panicked and probably reacted like this: “I, uh, um, no, what? Ah! Why me?” (With that Taylor-trademark eloquence, I clearly belonged on camera from the beginning).

Since immersing myself in the acronym-happy dialect of video production, I’ve realized the power in discomfort. (Even when videographers throw a backslash in the middle of an acronym a la “VO/SOT”).

I don’t mean the, “I have to wear that itchy sweater Aunt Edna gave me,” kind of discomfort. Rather, I mean the kind that says, “Hey, you’re getting a little too cozy in your area of expertise. Here’s a hypothetical nudge from me, your Future.”

When I yield control to my Future — though it’s typically a bit more daring than I’d prefer — I realize a nagging need to explore the entire media realm, well beyond my beloved print.

Well, here I go: I’m working a shift at the annual Drake Relays televised broadcast in April, and I’m might even try play-calling a Bulldog basketball game in the fall.

Yo hablo radio?

Abroad experience offers a lesson in letting go

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A blue rubber band corrals a hodgepodge pile of papers: a map, a receipt, an itinerary, a ticket (or 10). I can’t read the writing on a bulk of them, and I can’t read the map (though I admit I probably couldn’t follow an American map either).

For once, though, I’m not worried about the language, the grammar or that I can’t comprehend any of it.

The allure is in the uncertainty.

I traveled to Turkey Jan. 9-24 with a group of 20 Drake University students, and “befuddlement” practically defined the experience.

“Wait, where are we going?” quickly proved the inquiry of the trip.

I rarely knew what I ate until I took a bite (and even then, I couldn’t label or pronounce it).

I can’t understand or speak Turkish.

Amid all the panic of experiencing a new continent, culture and language, I realized and embraced the beauty in the unexpected. And for a lifelong planner, color coder (Can I add that title to my resume?) and list enthusiast, departure from the orderly marked a frightening expedition into the unknown.

An unfamiliar language and culture weren’t big enough challenges for me, right?

When I buried my marker collection (for color-coding, duh) in my backpack and ignored the nagging, “Where are we going?” in my mind, I finally experienced Turkey.

I toured Hagia Sophia. I tried lamb. I learned a little bit of the language. I met a great friend whom I’ll never forget (and who I hope won’t forget that chatty Iowa girl with a love of language and a fear of Istanbul traffic).

As I organize each ticket, map, receipt and itinerary by date (Hey, I can’t abandon organization completely — we’ve been together a long time), I relive my time in Turkey. But more importantly, I relive the mildly alarming, ultimately intoxicating feeling of letting go. The feeling of a worthwhile “experience.”

Istanbul from the top of Galata Tower

Istanbul from the top of Galata Tower

Trip to Turkey promises a lesson in the power of uncertainty

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I thrive on the thrill of certainty.

Though I’ve memorized the difference between “everyday” and “every day,” I check my beloved AP Stylebook each time I write it. I admit I relish the brief thrill in that moment of confirmation. And though I’ve memorized the family formula for caramel cake, I rifle through the recipe box each time I bake it in hunt of the now-tattered card.

Next week, however, I’ll embark on a big journey defined by uncertainty.

I’m traveling to Turkey Jan. 9-24 to learn about an unfamiliar culture on a new continent, and I’m uncertain what to expect. And weirdly enough, I’m fine with that (All right, I will be fine with it after I devour another piece of caramel cake).

When I wander the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, tour the Virgin Mary House in Izmir and try new food, I vow to let the uncertainty linger. While I get a thrill from confirming the amount of water in a top-notch cake recipe, I’m determined to realize the value in uncertainty.

I’m uncertain what that value will be for me, but I think I’ll begin the journey today, from my kitchen in Iowa: I’ll bake my beloved caramel cake recipe from memory.

Late professor’s example a source of guidance in journalism and life

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I’ll never forget an email I received from Richard Tapscott in April 2013.

“Taylor, your story is first-rate. But I have a few suggestions … ”

It didn’t feel any different at the time, with its typical conciseness, careful word choice and the Tapscott trademark of praise and polish served side by side. When I read the email Dec. 1, the day Rick died, though, I realized the gem hidden in it. In four brief paragraphs (none over three sentences, per Rick’s Rules), I discovered the kind of editor and reporter I aspire to be.

After a month of work that April, I had finally completed a piece of over 2,200 words about Des Moines’ booming young professionals scene for Rick’s Advanced Reporting and Writing Principles class.

In the typical Rick way, he opened the email with a quick compliment. And, again in that typical Rick way, he followed it with a long list of what I could improve.

Rick always knew exactly what his students needed to hear. He once approached me in the hallway of Meredith my freshman year and simply said, “Miss Soule, your lede in that Student Senate story was weak. I already know they met. Tell me what happened,” and walked away.

But he never let me forget one thing more important than fixing a weak lede, a gap in reporting or even the dreaded Oxford comma. He believed in me.

Yet again, I realized that extraordinary gift in a typical exchange with Rick.

When I met with him in his office one morning last spring, I vented about my trouble getting ahold of a key source despite multiple phone calls, messages and emails.

My blubbering episode probably sounded something like this: “Tapscott, I’m not going to get this story done, and I don’t think this source is going to call me, and I’m going to fail, and it’s not going to work out.” He replied in his usual succinct delivery, “It’ll all work out. It always does.”

And as always, he was right. That was the great thing about Tapscott. He believed in me even when I doubted myself.

And now, since taking over as editor-in-chief at The Times-Delphic in May, I say that exact piece of advice often, when my staff is panicking, whether about a source, a story or the day-to-day drama of working at a college newspaper. I’m not sure if any of the staff knows I got that advice from Tapscott, but I hope next year’s editor-in-chief and every EIC after keep those direct but comforting words alive in the TD newsroom.

In those routine conversations with Rick, I honed my definition of a “good” editor and reporter. The editor who values belief in her staff over the power of her red (or, for me, pink) pen. The reporter who won’t panic or complain about her latest woe.

Even more than an editor and reporter, though, Rick taught me what kind of person I aspire to be. Someone who works not for the paycheck, but to teach and encourage others. Someone who knows exactly what to say at the right time: “Taylor, journalism is an honorable and fun profession if you go into it for the right reasons.”

Thanks, Rick. Here I go.

What I’m thankful for as a journalist

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I hate to open my post with the quintessential Thanksgiving line, but I have a lot for which to be thankful.

Rather than ramble about my love of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream or One Direction, though, I narrowed my reflection to journalism and specifically, what I’m thankful for in the media world.

First, I’m thankful stories change. Nearly a month ago, I embarked on a project about the alleged nationwide shortage of farm veterinarians. A lot of research and one interview later, however, I realized that wasn’t the story at all.

In fact, there wasn’t a shortage of farm vets but a surplus. There are plenty of farm vets, but they’re not in the right places. While I had to abandon my initial plan, the real story proved far more intriguing — and troubling — than the preconceived one.

So, I’m thankful stories change. I’m thankful I’m in a field where unpredictability is a mainstay. Finally, I’m thankful I had the chance to challenge and hone my ability to be flexible. To let my sources and research — not my original idea or a naive preconception — guide my reporting and writing.

I’m also thankful for The Times-Delphic staff. I know I gushed about them in a recent TD column, but they’re my anchors amid the crazy, whiplash-worthy workload of an editor-in-chief. And they deserve an extra helping of recognition.

Though I swear all 13 editors conspire to bombard me with questions at the same time, they motivate me to serve the readers in every word I write, edit and print.

Finally, I’m thankful I have the opportunity to enter and experience a variety of worlds as a journalist.

I recently entered the realm of costume play, cosplay for short. Yeah, me: “Star Wars” and comic book newbie and lifelong costume cynic.

Though I inadvertently asked a “Star Wars” cosplayer to explain his “Star Trek” outfit (the capital sin in comic con world) at my first comic book convention, I realized the richness in a new culture and ultimately, a new frame of mind.

Finally, I’m thankful I work in the world of sharing stories. When I’m embroiled in the chaotic grind of back-to-back interviews, multiple deadlines and frantic AP Stylebook searches, I often neglect the thing I’m most thankful for as a journalist: I spend every day rapt in the sometimes-hectic, sometimes-complicated — but always beautiful — human experience.

Internship at rural newspaper reinforces desire to serve readers

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“Ten weeks, 55 work days,” I calculated in May, skeptical I’d survive — let alone thrive — in the rural town of DeWitt, Iowa. When I walked into The Observer 55 days ago, I had one goal: to write my naïve idea of “big” stories (corporate corruption, government fraud, social injustice and the like).

At The Observer, however, I covered a container gardening competition, barn quilting and a city council meeting where the “debate” revolved around new holiday decorations (elves vs. snowmen) for the lone city park.

While my work hardly fit my preconceived idea of “hard” news, I realized “big” stories aren’t limited to fraud and corporate exploitation. “Big” stories serve the readers, and the readers determine the definition, whether it’s revealing government corruption or explaining container gardening guidelines.

Before my time at The Observer, I presumed reporters at bi-weekly and weekly papers had simpler, easier work lives. While deadlines aren’t as severe at a rural paper, rural reporters face their own workplace challenges.

Overlapping newsroom roles, for instance, interrupt the fluid thought process necessary for writing on deadline. At The Observer, staff members dabble in nearly every facet of production in a back-and-forth, whiplash-worthy cycle.

The sports editor, for instance, doubles as a receptionist. The copy editor doubles as bookkeeper. The photo editor doubles as legal typist and page designer.

With disparate roles intersecting, Observer reporters face near-constant pressure to multitask. As a result, I learned to appreciate the moments dedicated to a single story. I am not entitled to a natural flow of ideas, as I naively believed.

While I didn’t achieve the one goal I set, I left The Observer with a sense of accomplishment, an arsenal of portfolio-ready stories, a “Big Bang Theory” care package from the staff, a newsroom of people rooting for me and most of all, a renewed desire to let the readers guide every word I write.

Expanding my perception of productivity

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“Mean Girls” blared as my friends laughed in harmony, reciting Regina George’s lines and inhaling Sour Patch Kids. Meanwhile, my fingers hovered above my keyboard, pounding feverishly to silence their advice: “Taylor, it’s Friday night. Take a break from work, and watch the movie.”

I’ve long restricted my perception of productivity to two arenas of my life: my education and my work. In the spring of 2012, I realized my limited perception of productivity was sapping my life of valuable relationships and — my ultimate foe — relaxation.

While I admit I yet refuse relaxing at times, I’m slowly expanding my perception of productivity to include down time, family time and friend time.

Napping, playing pick-up sticks with my sister and watching “Mean Girls” (again) hardly advance my journalism goals, but they enrich and balance my life.

Productivity, I’ve discovered, is a broad term for any experience that contributes to personal growth.

Family time, for example, reveals that my achievements are the result of others’ lifelong belief in my abilities. That belief merits my gratitude. Under the hypnotizing spell of to-do lists and due dates, however, I neglect to thank my family.

Friend time reminds me to laugh, joke and enjoy my Drake University years. Work and play are equally fundamental to goal-achievement.

Even napping is a catalyst for self-development, as it reminds me again and again of my invincibility. Taking care of my body is a key step in taking care of my latest to-do list.

I’m moving toward balance in my life, one Regina George quote at a time.

Covering rural government hones follow-up questioning skills

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I walked into Charlotte City Hall (which doubles as the police station), expecting a table encircled by suit-clad bigwigs.

A long hallway later, though, I walked into a cubicle-like space complete with mismatched chairs, a noisy (and I suspect, antique) air conditioning unit and the council — all clad in loungewear.

Rural government, I quickly discovered, is neither glamorous nor formal, and covering it requires a high level of follow-up questioning.

In covering two council meetings and a school board meeting for The Observer, I’ve learned the power of follow-up questioning and consequently, poise.

Rural council members refer to residents by first name or nickname only, so motions go something like this: “Motion to demolish Old Man Johnson’s house on that gravel road west of town.”

I felt like an interrogator asking question upon question about Old Man Johnson and the home.

Albeit confusing at moments, rural government has also taught me the value of poise. A solid question won’t receive a solid response until I show a potential source I’m invested in what he or she knows.

On the whole, moving to DeWitt has helped me hone my follow-up questioning and source-hunting skills.

I know whom to contact (and not to contact) for information at Drake, and potential sources likewise know I’m Times-Delphic editor-in-chief. Source-hunting has grown routine.

However, moving to a new town has honed my source-hunting skills. I exchanged, “Hello. It’s Taylor, again,” for, “Hello, I’m Taylor. It’s nice to meet you,” in my quest for information.

Now more than ever, I feel at ease approaching people I’ve never met and confidently asking questions.