Recently, I was interviewing an archivist for a story I was working on. She wanted to know why I decided to do this particular story, why I thought these obscure archives were worth writing about, why I was curious.
I explained that I came across a reference to the archives while working on follow-up articles I hope to publish around Windfall. I thought other people should know about them, too. She kept asking me questions about my book and my work — which I am generally happy to answer because I love talking!
And especially with archivists. They always point you in unexpected directions.
That said, this archivist was supposed to be the subject of the interview, not me. It can be super cringe to listen back to a recording of an interview and hear yourself talking more than the subject of your interview. I'm not saying it's always a bad practice — when people understand that you are a human with your own stories and foibles, they are more likely to share with some vulnerability, too. People will tell you more if they warm up to you, and sometimes, you have to share your own story to establish the rapport that will get them to that point.
If possible, the best interviews are conversations, where there's a give and take and you are bouncing ideas off of each other. But, honestly, a lot of interviews we do as journalists are transactional. Especially with government or business sources, who may ask you to email a list of questions that they may or may not answer. Some people are not interested in having a conversation, and that's fine. They answer your questions and move on. Their time is valuable. So is mine. After all, I am asking them to give me 15-30 minutes of time for free, in exchange for what may only be a sentence or two in a 1,500-word story. Or may get cut entirely!
There are other practical consideration to keeping some interviews short. As a freelancer, I pay for out of my own pocket for AI-generated transcripts of many of the interviews I do, to ensure accuracy, and I don't want to pay for five minutes of me talking. Yes, it's a tax-deductible business expense, but it still cuts into my story fee or hourly rate.
(I should note that it's rare that I do interviews that are live or played back for recording; those require an entirely different skillset and type of preparation as an interviewer. Vulnerability is not always a strength!)
Back to the archivist. She wanted to have a conversation with me. And I'm so glad we did. Because she asked me a question no one had ever asked me before in all my time doing research about a tiny little spot in northwestern North Dakota: "How does it feel when you are in North Dakota?"
I have lots of opinions on the "how does it feel?" question — it's often a sloppy shortcut on the part of journalists to get people to say something emotional. There are better, more nuanced ways to get an answer to that question, if you have the time. But sometimes, it's a necessary question. And coming from the archivist, the subject of the interview, it stopped me in my tracks.
I told her that I felt connected while there, even though I no longer have family there and only a few people I would call friends. Something in my bones calls me to that place, I said, even though I don't want to live or stay there. After so much time, I know where the road curves and what the light will do as sunset approaches. I feel more keenly the passage of time when I am there. The wind scares me with its constancy; the loneliness eventually drives me away.
It was such a relief telling her all this. I thanked her for asking me the question. Perhaps only an archivist would understand a decade-long curiosity about a place!
Shortly after the interview with the archivist, I did another story, about the potential terroir of hops. This is the idea that hops, like wine grapes, might bring a distinctive aroma or taste to beer, depending on where and how they are grown. Terroir can be quantified with an analysis of soil compounds and weather patterns and other measurable facts. But ultimately, it's a feeling about a place. A vibe.
So while out at a hop farm interviewing people and observing the harvest, I asked myself: What does it feel like to be here today? It felt industrious, capable and joyful. It felt as though people were connected to what they were doing. Could I convey that in my story?
But I also felt more connected after visiting the farm. In the days after my visit, I began noticing hops everywhere, how they'd been planted in random places around Portland, including along the fence of a community garden not far from my house.
Terroir is about being grounded and connected to a place in a way that elicits a feeling. The place doesn't have to be home. But what it evokes is the sense of home, a place or a feeling that calls to you when you are no longer there.
Yours,
Erika