Yesterday I sat in my car with tears streaming down my face listening to a book on CD by a hardened war correspondent as she talked of her friend in Baghdad, their time together and their bittersweet goodbye. She is a woman after my own heart living on cola and kit-kats, cigarettes and adrenaline, and scooping the major TV networks. I love listening to her tales of satellite phone mishaps, dodging information ministry officials and her tender accounts of the people of Iraq. She’s a little salt, a little sugar, a little whiskey on the rocks.
I have never wanted to be a war correspondent, specifically. An intrepid reporter waving the flag of high journalistic standards, maybe. Lately, I’d settle for relatively stable mama-writer but, these days, that seems about as illusive as carrying a DAT recorder through Baghdad. [Read More]