A Day in the Life of an Editor-in-Chief

Editorial Note: The following is a work of EDITORIAL SATIRE and does not represent the views of the Register Forum.

A blessing and a curse, Eman must learn to live in her new world.

Eman Abdurezak

A blessing and a curse, Eman must learn to live in her new world.

Eman Abdurezak, Editor-in-Chief

Every day, I wake up and stare at my reflection in the mirror. Leaning over the sink, I face the never-ending question: Who am I? Am I “good cop”? Am I “bad cop”? Do I even need to be a cop at all, especially considering the political and economic state of the world right now? I head to the closet, more decisions looming overhead. What to wear? The hoodie I slept in for a “burnt-out senior” look? Sliding the diamond-patterned sweater vest over my head, I’ve decided to go with “overly mature editor”. In the halls, I glaze over the shifty fearful eyes of late contributors, although if I’m being honest, I can’t remember which piece I’m waiting for from them. 

The colors of the master spreadsheet dance in my daydreams during class. Classmates peer over my shoulder, expecting potential prom dresses or unblocked games. Instead, it’s email. It’s always email. Someone came up to me inquiring about being an editor earlier, and I squealed. Squealed. I think they may have lost interest. At lunch, the only thing I consume is the latest media. That could be an article, my brain chants while friends try to update me on their lives. Am I so far into the cavernous depths of potential stories that, in truth, I’m removed from the reality of being a mere high school student? I advertise the next NewsStorm to people during class. They laugh. I wasn’t joking. 

After school, I went shopping with friends. One of them held up a graphic tee that he liked, but I couldn’t give my opinion. The text looked crooked and I couldn’t focus. I knew it couldn’t be, but I felt the sudden intense urge to find a ruler and check. As night fell, I sat at my desk and opened up my battered Chromebook. I need to go back to my roots, I thought. The blinding “Untitled document” flooded the screen, the cursor blinking mockingly. I thought back to the times of flying fingers across keyboards, completing articles just hours before they were due. But now, my mind drew a blank. Going back to the basics proved to be a laborious task. I went to sleep; the nightmare of forgetting how to write had begun long before.

This article also appears in our April 2023 print edition.