I woke up at 4:30 a.m., fell asleep in the shower and somehow managed to throw clothes on my body by 5:07 a.m. After a short prayer, by 5:20 a.m. I was driving three fellow journalists to Venice, La., to cover the oil spill. When we finally arrived a few hours later, we immediately got to work. I spotted a Coast Guard station and did an illegal U-turn to get to it. And that was just about how our entire day went : finding leads and chasing them.

Our day was long and eventful, but exciting. We felt like real journalists and the four of us even bonded over video blogs, po’boy sandwiches and hilarious sources.

All that fun was over when we returned — about 7 p.m., after 14 hours away — and had to write the stories. We were on tight deadlines and needed to get our stories posted quickly. I knocked out a short profile of two housekeepers who cook for their Coast Guard guests and then went on to my community service story.

I loved the profile. I fell in love with the characters and tried to make the reader feel that same love for them through my words. The community service story wasn’t as much fun, but I put the facts out there and produced what I thought was a solid piece of work.

When it was time for the editors to take a look I was excited. I went to cover the biggest oil spill in history and would have several clips with the New York Times Student Institute name on it! But my high was destroyed when the editors decided not to use my profile piece because the same characters were in the main article. I was told it was best for the website.

It didn’t feel like it was the best for me, but I dealt with it, because, after all, I still had the community service story.

Boy was I wrong. I was unclear of what my editor was looking for and I had asked all the wrong questions and got the wrong story. I was told that I would either have to turn it into a blog post or have nothing to show for my trip. I chose the blog post, but I was not happy about it.

My three colleagues got some amazing clips from the trip and I was left with a blog post. How would anyone ever know that I was in Venice chasing leads, hunting down shrimp boaters or following men grabbing bags of cotton to soak up the oil and throwing them into boats?

Naturally, I called my mother. I pouted to her. I told her I was the worst journalist in the world and I would never make it. I told her I blew my opportunity to cover a disaster. She listened. Then she brought me back down to earth. She reminded me that I have only been at this for a year, and I can’t win them all.

I went back in the newsroom with my eyes flushed with red and my iPod on full blast. Even after the conversation with my mom I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I just wanted to finish my blog and leave.

I am horrible at hiding my emotions, so my sour mood was noticed by just about anyone who could see. Writing that blog post was so frustrating.
After a few talks with some of the editors who assured me things would get better. I decided to finish up my blog and search for a new story.
The next day I came in, still slightly upset about my lame blog post, but eager to write more and get better. I wrote two stories that day — I think some of my best work at the Institute.

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