http://www.sptimes.com/2006/03/09/Floridian/Award_winning_work.shtml
Brady Dennis was a night cops reporter in the Tampa bureau of Poynter's St.
Petersburg (Fla.) Times when he started writing "300 Words," a series of
short stories about ordinary people, in 2004. This year, he won the Ernie
Pyle Award for human interest writing for his series.
To find their stories, Zuppa and Dennis think of a moment they want to
capture, then find the subject who best defines that moment.
MICHAEL WEINSTEIN: How did you come up with the idea of writing 300word stories?
BRADY DENNIS: I first dreamed up "300 Words" while working as a night
cops reporter in Tampa. For starters, I wanted a project that offered a break
from the usual murder and mayhem that I typically covered (and enjoyed
covering). I knew I wanted the pieces to be short and to highlight people
that otherwise never would make the newspaper.
What was the easiest thing about doing them?
The easiest thing was my complete confidence in the people we would find. I
believe that each person not only has a story to tell, but that each person has a
story that matters. I've always felt humbled in the presence of everyday, "ordinary"
people who are willing to share their lives with us. Give me them any day over
politicians and celebrities.
What was hardest?
The hardest thing, I suppose, was finding a theme in each piece that was universal
-- love, loss, death, change, new beginnings. Something everyone could relate to
on a human level. I didn't think it was enough to say, "Look, here's an interesting
person." I wanted to capture that person in a moment when readers could say, "I
understand. I've been there."
What did you learn about writing short stories with a beginning, middle and end?
I learned it doesn't take 3,000 words to put together a beginning, middle and end.
A good story is a good story, no matter the length. And sometimes the shorter ones
turn out [to be] more powerful than the windy ones.
That said, there's a risk of sounding like I'm advocating super-short stories with no
traditional nut graph. Not so. I believe no matter how long or short the story, people
should know why it is important and worth their time. It's not enough just to paint a
pretty picture. We must strive to tell them something about the world that matters, to
be journalists and not simply storytellers. Hopefully, in a non-traditional way, "300
Words" does that.
Has it made you a better reporter? Better writer?
Absolutely. "300 Words" made me a better reporter by forcing me to rely almost
primarily on observation. Notice that most pieces contain almost no quotes. I didn't
interview people as much as I simply shut my mouth and watched and listened. We
don't do that enough.
It also made me a more economical writer. With only 300 words to spare, each one
had to matter. I've tried to apply that rule to the other stories I do, even the long ones.
The idea is to cut away the fat and leave only the muscle. As my editor, Neville Green,
repeated again and again: "Less is more." It's true for most stories we write.
Now, more than ever, we should be willing to take risks and make reading the paper
an unpredictable and interesting exercise. "300 Words" was an effort at that. But there
are a million other possibilities, and journalists are pretty bright folks. All it takes is the
willingness to risk something new.
After the sky fell
By BRADY DENNIS
Published January 28, 2005
The loneliness of the overnight shift at a Suncoast
Parkway toll booth: Lloyd Blair, 71, sits back and
waits for the next driver to come by his station.
The few drivers on this dark, lonely stretch of the Suncoast Parkway in Pasco County pull up to the toll booth, hand
their dollars to Lloyd Blair and then speed away. None of them knows why the old man sits here, night after night,
working the graveyard shift.
Well, here's why:
Because years ago, on a freezing winter night at a party in Queens, N.Y., he met a woman named Millie.
Because he fell in love with her brown hair and wide eyes and 100-watt smile.
Because they got married, moved to Staten Island, had a son and worked for decades in Manhattan; she as an
accountant, he as a banker.
Because it had been their dream to retire to Florida, and so they saved all their lives to make it possible.
Because, just as they began to talk of leaving New York and heading south, she was diagnosed with breast cancer,
and they spent their time and money traveling to New Jersey, San Diego and Mexico in search of a cure.
Because, in the end, they came to Florida anyway.
Because they finally bought a house in Spring Hill, although she was too weak that day to get out of the car.
Because she died nine days later on Jan. 5, 2002, a day "the whole sky fell," he says.
Because, after she was gone, he found himself alone and $100,000 in debt.
And so he took a job collecting tolls. The drivers who pass by see a smiling 71-year-old man with blue eyes and a
gray mustache who tells each of them, "Have a great night!"
They don't know the rest of Lloyd Blair's story, or that he keeps Millie's picture in his shirt pocket, just under his
name tag, just over his heart.
The few drivers on this dark, lonely stretch of the Suncoast Parkway in Pasco County pull up to the toll booth, hand
their dollars to Lloyd Blair and then speed away. None of them knows why the old man sits here, night after night,
working the graveyard shift.
Well, here's why:
Because years ago, on a freezing winter night at a party in Queens, N.Y., he met a woman named Millie.
Because he fell in love with her brown hair and wide eyes and 100-watt smile.
Because they got married, moved to Staten Island, had a son and worked for decades in Manhattan; she as an
accountant, he as a banker.
Because it had been their dream to retire to Florida, and so they saved all their lives to make it possible.
Because, just as they began to talk of leaving New York and heading south, she was diagnosed with breast cancer,
and they spent their time and money traveling to New Jersey, San Diego and Mexico in search of a cure.
Because, in the end, they came to Florida anyway.
Because they finally bought a house in Spring Hill, although she was too weak that day to get out of the car.
Because she died nine days later on Jan. 5, 2002, a day "the whole sky fell," he says.
Because, after she was gone, he found himself alone and $100,000 in debt.
And so he took a job collecting tolls. The drivers who pass by see a smiling 71-year-old man with blue eyes and a
gray mustache who tells each of them, "Have a great night!"
They don't know the rest of Lloyd Blair's story, or that he keeps Millie's picture in his shirt pocket, just under his
name tag, just over his heart.
The man in the mask
By BRADY DENNIS
Published October 17, 2005
Waiting for the madness: Ashley "Stretch" McClellan, 24, rests
before facing the bulls at Osceola Heritage Park in Kissimmee.
Inside the locker room, the drifter drifts to sleep.
He pays no attention to the country music blaring outside, or the bulls pacing restlessly, or the bullriders swaggering in tootight Wranglers.
They call him Stretch, a wild man, a bullfighter, the American kind, who paints his face clown-like and dresses in red and
throws himself willingly into the path of angry beasts who have just bucked cowboys to the ground.
When he was 14, the road called, and Stretch answered. He ran away from home and landed at an Oklahoma rodeo and has
lived a hundred lifetimes since.
He's slept at truck stops, on the shoulder of highways, in the dirt beside livestock. He's drunk his share of Jack Daniels. He's
been tattooed a half-dozen times in a half-dozen cities, dipped enough Copenhagen to roof a house with the tin cans. He's
been arrested for fighting. He found a girlfriend in Utah named Kasey.
He's stared down a thousand bulls in a thousand nowhere towns from Tennessee to Texas, Montana to Mississippi. The bulls
have knocked out his front teeth and broken his arms, ribs, ankles, tailbone, collarbone and kneecap. They've given him more
concussions and stitches and joy than he can measure.
"I live kind of different," Stretch says, smiling toothlessly.
Back in Kansas, the family never understood. His dad's a lawyer, his sister a dentist. His brothers turned out normal, too.
But Stretch, well, he lives kind of different. He owns two bags of clothes and probably won't ever own much else, except
this: "I'll have a lot of good stories."
And maybe that's enough.
Maybe, unlike so many people, he has found the place he belongs, in the ring with the other untamed souls, kicking up dust
and mud.
The drifter opens his eyes. Showtime.
Inside the locker room, the drifter drifts to sleep.
He pays no attention to the country music blaring outside, or the bulls pacing restlessly, or the bullriders swaggering in tootight Wranglers.
They call him Stretch, a wild man, a bullfighter, the American kind, who paints his face clown-like and dresses in red and
throws himself willingly into the path of angry beasts who have just bucked cowboys to the ground.
When he was 14, the road called, and Stretch answered. He ran away from home and landed at an Oklahoma rodeo and has
lived a hundred lifetimes since.
He's slept at truck stops, on the shoulder of highways, in the dirt beside livestock. He's drunk his share of Jack Daniels. He's
been tattooed a half-dozen times in a half-dozen cities, dipped enough Copenhagen to roof a house with the tin cans. He's
been arrested for fighting. He found a girlfriend in Utah named Kasey.
He's stared down a thousand bulls in a thousand nowhere towns from Tennessee to Texas, Montana to Mississippi. The bulls
have knocked out his front teeth and broken his arms, ribs, ankles, tailbone, collarbone and kneecap. They've given him more
concussions and stitches and joy than he can measure.
"I live kind of different," Stretch says, smiling toothlessly.
Back in Kansas, the family never understood. His dad's a lawyer, his sister a dentist. His brothers turned out normal, too.
But Stretch, well, he lives kind of different. He owns two bags of clothes and probably won't ever own much else, except
this: "I'll have a lot of good stories."
And maybe that's enough.
Maybe, unlike so many people, he has found the place he belongs, in the ring with the other untamed souls, kicking up dust
and mud.
The drifter opens his eyes. Showtime.
The sign said “no jumping.”
He argues he didn’t see it before he flung himself off the gorge in Ithaca, New York that summer. It begged to be jumped.
Then again, anyone who knows him knows he’s certainly not one who obeys the signs.
That jump got Mike Schmitt (“Schmitty” to just about everyone), his first of three arrests in his 21 years. “Technically.”
A look at his police record will turn up arrests for an MIP and a minor driving with a BAC (of .07, he’s quick to point out, but
Michigan’s a “no tolerance” state).
That’s a bit about Schmitty. He’ll give more details between swigs of a Bud Light bottle at a local dive bar to anyone who
wants to hear them. Then again, anyone who knows this kid knows he’s certainly not one to be judged by a police record.
Because a police record won’t turn up evidence of the six summers he spent all over the country in group work camps with
his church (“kinda like Habitat for Humanity,” he’ll inform you). It won’t tell you he was in Ithaca at one of these camps
when he made that fateful jump.
It won’t show his homecoming sash. His quiet donations to cancer research funds. His 1,633 friends on Facebook.
His award winning high school newspaper column on being a suicidal teenager.
Perhaps this explains the tat.
Want to judge Schmitty? Look at his left calf. Look at it both ways. From one angle, the tattoo ink spells “change.” Turn
around, and it says “growth.”
Like Schmitty. It looks like one thing from a certain perspective, but becomes something totally different when you look
again.
Like a suicidal high-schooler in the homecoming court.
Like an indiscriminating police record.
Like an Ithaca gorge, just begging to be jumped.