Joe Peters

In the fall of 1989, I found myself back in my parents' home, hoping the few dollars I had saved during a summer of working (and playing) on Cape Cod would last until I could venture north for a seasonal job at a ski resort. When informed of my lofty goals, my father advised that I should "get a haircut, send out some resumes, and put that degree of yours to work." I had to admit that dad had both logic and economics on his side. While the haircut waited a few months, my initial wave of resumes resulted in an offer from a local newspaper editor who was in desperate need of a reporter. I soon learned how little I knew not only about writing (despite my English major credentials) but also the world around me. On any give day, I could find myself in a room with either an eagle scout or a convicted murder. It was a great job enveloped by great people who shared a bond of believing that news - real news - mattered. While I have long since left the world of journalism, it is where I learned to write. I liken my writing to the my mother's driving on the traffic-choked roads of Cape Cod during the summer. Mom had mastered the ability to get anywhere by taking only right turns. I often feel a similar limitation in my diction and grammar, but, like mom, with persistence, I do manage to get to where I need to go.