Journalism 101 Lesson One: Making Do. by Leonard Gill he job of book reviewer is one thing, the job of investigative reporter is another, and what the one has to do with the other goes without saying. I’ll say it anyway: zilch. Now that we’re clear on that point, we can move on to what’s less than clear on another: what to do when a writer who’s normally one thing (say, a book reviewer) gets wind of a story ripe for the picking (one, say, with a bookish angle to it), tries to investigate it, and learns in the time it takes to follow half a dozen leads that the people who are talking don’t know much and the person who’s supposed to know a lot isn’t talking. Cokie Roberts In the former category, I’m putting the handful of Oxonians I spoke to over the past week. In the latter category, I’m putting William Faulkner’s nephew Jimmy, who clocked in with a record-setting interview lasting roughly 20 seconds. And in the category “story,” I’m putting a marker, the marker that sits beside the graves of William Faulkner, his wife Estelle, and Estelle’s son, Malcolm Franklin, in St. Peter’s Cemetery in Oxford, Mississippi. This marker, spotted at least as far back as last winter and the unofficial talk at this year’s Faulkner conference at Ole Miss, is engraved with the initials “E.T.,” and I hereby award the Pulitzer to the person, be it book reviewer, investigative reporter, or plain busybody – I’m stopping just short of grave-digger – who can identify E.T. as a him, her, or it and explain the fuss. Jim Dees, a writer for The Oxford Eagle, is so far that Pulitzer’s sole candidate, but even his researches turned up dead-ends. City and cemetery records, in this case, didn’t help him, and as far as the town of Oxford is concerned, again in this case, you do with your land what you want. Faulkner’s nephew is part-owner of the land in question, and Liz Taylor is still with us, isn’t she? I don’t get out much. In or out, I get the point: If there’s a story you can’t count on, make do with one you can – your own and this country’s women if you are Cokie Roberts in her bestseller We Are Our Mothers’ Daughters (Morrow, $19.95), or your own and this country’s Phil Campbells if you are Flyer reporter Phil Campbell in the piece that opens a collection of writings from the late, great Might magazine titled Shiny Adidas Tracksuits and the Death of Camp (Berkley Boulevard Books, $14). I’ll admit that Roberts’ slender record of her good Catholic upbringing, her good Democratic family (both father and mother served in Congress), her marriage to a good Jewish husband (journalist Steven Roberts), and the couple’s raising of a couple of good kids didn’t strike me a few months ago as priority reading. Having read it, I’ll also admit my worse fears were not realized. Roberts, in short, knows when to cut the syrup and cut to the realities of family and history – and in particular to the contributions of women both inside and outside the home. There are tributes here galore (look for the especially high marks Roberts gives Memphian Ida B. Wells), some tough self-appraisal, and not a single mystery gravesite in sight. Put Roberts on the Oxford case, and I can’t imagine any 20-second interviews. Put Phil Campbell on the case of calling the 234 Phil Campbells of America for the First Phil Campbell Convention in Phil Campbell, Alabama, and what you get is America if not at its finest then at least at its mighty peculiar. The idea sprang from a Hee Haw rerun in 1995, the turnout was a surprising 22 Phil Campbells from across the country (plus one Phyllis Campbell), and the results were off-beat enough to suit the editors of Might, a magazine with a mission just asking for the ax: to publish only those things the editors cared about and not the sorts of things (“celebrities, clothes, electronics, makeup, cars, video games, beer, nightlife generally, and shoes”) any idiot would know to be the very stuff that makes or breaks a start-up. Instead, Might drew from the likes of David Foster Wallace, Ted Rall, R.U. Sirius (and Phil Campbell), and published articles dear to the editors’ hearts but of no possible use to advertisers – unless you know one eager to be identified with an essay by one writer on the possible health hazards of drinking his own urine. So why doesn’t this piece show up in Shiny Adidas? Sounds like a great first lesson in reporting: When in doubt, make do and by all means with something you’re sure you’ve got. (On Monday, August 24th, Cokie Roberts will deliver a talk and sign copies of We Are Our Mothers’ Daughters at St. Mary’s Episcopal School. The event, sponsored by St. Mary’s, the Friends of the Library, and Burke’s Book Store, is scheduled for 7 p.m. inside the school’s Rose Theater at the corner of Perkins Extended and Walnut Grove Road. Seating is limited, and tickets, at $10 each, may be purchased at Burke’s or at the school’s Cook Library. For further information, call 537-1483 or Burke’s at 278-7484.)