"Your little newspaper is playing with fire!"

About 10 minutes had passed since the uninvited guest had shown up to my newsroom. I had stretched out my "just look busy" phone call for as long as I could, all the while feeling the stranger burn a hole into the back of my head, staring at me and standing in the doorway. It was time to turn around, face the music, and find out what I'd done to piss him off.

It was the summer of 1998 -- a Thursday night, I believe -- and I was Editor-In-Chief for a family of three community publications. I was also the only salaried member of the editorial staff, which meant I ended up writing most of the content each month and was responsible for the magazine's design, layout, distribution... you name it. I'm surprised I wasn't in charge of mopping the floors at night. And even though I was getting paid very little to do all of this, I was enjoying the experience immensely.

If you've ever read The Last Juror by John Grisham, parts of that novel remind me of both the joys and the responsibilities of running a community publication. Sure, Grisham's story takes place in the 1970s instead of the 1990s, and in Mississippi instead of Markham, but every time I've re-read that book, I draw parallels to the main character Willie Traynor and the role I held in the summer of '98.

The world of community news is (or at least it was some 25 years ago) a great entry point for any aspiring journalist that wants to learn their craft and see what kind of impact writing about your local area has on the community at large. It can be fun, educational and rewarding at the same time.

On the flip side of that -- and this is another similarity to The Last Juror -- unexpected visitors sometimes drop by the newsroom. Although it was hardly an everyday occurrence, these drop-ins were a sign that members of the community could feel free to come in and share anything they deemed newsworthy. Usually, they'd give me a handwritten press release or a photo from their recent event, and were always appreciative if I could mention it in the next issue. Therefore, whenever I was in the office (which was six or seven days a week back then), I often left the front door unlocked.

Unfortunately, on this Thursday evening in 1998, the wrong person stopped by.

I heard the front door open from my newsroom office near the back of the building and someone shouted out "Looking to speak to the publisher!". It was the kind of voice that just sounded menacing and since I wasn't actually the publisher, I quietly kept to myself in the back room.

It soon became apparent that no one else was around in the building besides myself and The Shouting Man, so I decided to conduct an important phone interview right then and there. Of course, the call was not particularly time-sensitive... but perhaps if my visitor saw I was busy, he would shrug his shoulders and walk off into the night.

My tactic was not particularly successful and through the glare of my computer monitor, I could see that my visitor looked quite large and rough around the edges; not the type of person you'd want to meet in a dark alley. Or, as it turned out, in a dimly-lit newsroom.

"Do you work here?" he said when I finally hung up the phone. No; I'm just doing a lousy job of breaking and entering, I thought to myself. "I do. How can I help you?"

"Your little newspaper is playing with fire," he explained. A few thoughts popped into my head, none of which I verbalized:

1. We weren't, technically speaking, a newspaper.
2. We were probably closer to playing with receivership than fire at that point, given the little advertising revenue that was coming in each month.
3. I didn't have the faintest clue what he was referring to.
4. If I opened up my mouth, there was a pretty good chance his fist would meet my face.

Buddy took my stunned silence as an opportunity to keep going. "Every time I read this bullshit, you're endorsing (name of political leader whose name I've since forgotten), but you never say that she's being funded by (an organization I have also since forgotten), which people need to understand. You people let them get away with this!"

It was at this point I was fairly sure my new friend had his facts wrong. Our publications were very much apolitical from an editorial perspective. Sure, we allowed candidates to purchase advertisements come election time and provide biographical information about themselves in our "election preview" but everyone was legitimately given the same treatment and opportunity. The suggestion that we endorsed any one candidate was laughable, and I was fairly sure we hadn't even written about the person in question for some time. Maybe he was confusing us with another publication?

Instead of firing back on these points, I just sat there and heard him out. I vividly remember offering him a seat more than once, but he preferred to stand there in the doorway (perhaps this was an intimidation tactic?).

I began taking notes to follow up later (I did, and do recall there was little to support his claims, even if we hadn't originated the content) and he continued his diatribe. Turns out he had been laid off earlier that year by a furniture manufacturer in the area and was understandably angry about it. His claim was along the lines that the politician could have helped to preserve jobs there but chose not to.

While his tone cooled down somewhat, his commentary continued for the better part of an hour. After a while, it became less about his original claims of media bias and more about life in general. I began thinking of ways to escape though an emergency exit. His family had moved from up north for him to take this job and life wasn't panning out the way he thought it should be. The costs of food and gas were getting too expensive. That kind of thing.

I offered my visitor the opportunity to fire back about his original claim or, well, anything else on his mind, in the form of a Letter To The Editor. Turns out that was never really his objective. It was clear he just wanted to be heard.

As I've progressed in my career, I've had dozens of similar conversations, requests, phone calls and emails... but I can now appreciate them for what they are. While some requests are legitimate concerns about any number of practices, some people just want the opportunity to air their grievances.

After he left and I could breathe comfortably again, I had learned two valuable lessons from that evening:

1. Being involved in community news means listening to the community.
2. It's okay to lock your front door at night.

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