Ink Stained

The creation of a newspaper — the fat, opinionated, story-filled scroll of repurposed pulp that used to hit the front door with a thud each morning — was rightly known as the daily miracle. Anyone who talked their way into the biz back when print held sway couldn’t help but be amazed by the warp speed of journalistic transformation: A few hours ago, you were gabbing to your deskmates and lying to the dutiful editor who wandered by to beg for some copy. And now suddenly, the whole building is shaking as the presses roll out your imperfect eye glazer on a neighbourhood zoning dispute that’s propping up a supermarket ad on A22.

There’s always tomorrow, you’d say on the bad days, basking in the daily miracle’s cycle of endless forgetting and the eternal chance of A1 affirmation that bucked up those reporters temperamentally inclined to doubt and distrust. Yes, even a brilliant column in today’s paper would be soaking up battered cod tomorrow, but for a full twenty-four...