If there is a photo that best captures the start of my journalism career, it is that of a smiling university student standing outside Australian Associated Press' Sydney office. I was about to embark on a two-week internship, the last hurdle before I could graduate. The building was intimidatingly large and that young woman from a small town was both terrified and excited.
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It was a few years ago now. John Howard was prime minister and Snake was the most advanced game you could play on a mobile phone. I spent much of those first days at AAP reading "the wire", the feed that carries hundreds of stories daily for publishers across Australia and the world to use to supplement their news. I liked the place immediately.
It buzzed with curious people uncovering interesting things.
The chief of staff promised a reporter would take me to a press conference with the prime minister. I was giddy with excitement but tried to appear calm. I played it perhaps a little too cool because the reporter, Joe Hildebrand, left without me. When he returned and my face fell he apologised, adding "it wasn't that exciting anyway".
Questioning prime ministers is normal for young AAP reporters.
Eighteen months later and I was back at AAP, but this time I was sending out "the wire". I started on the broadcast desk, working a 24-hour roster to repackage stories for radio news. We made the "rip and read" bulletins millions would hear on their commute.
What they didn't hear was the name AAP.
The lack of attribution would become a greater bugbear when I began reporting from court. When they were my words appearing in newspapers and websites without my name on them or, with alarming frequency, under another reporter's byline. Those publications, already feeling financial pressure as their revenue models faltered, perhaps wanted to hide their reliance on the wire. Regardless, those journalists trusted AAP enough to put their name to stories reporting the goings-on in a courtroom they had not set foot in.
And they could trust AAP because we were accurate. We tried to be first but, above all else, we had to be right.
It was gruelling work. While journalists for other publications would write maybe one report a day, we would file constantly, often in time for the hourly news. One day, the 2GB court reporter and I were in Hornsby for a bail application. The ruling was made just minutes to the hour. It had been a huge week and, as we were the only media there, we both agreed to delay filing until after the news to give us more time. But it turns out the darn ABC was there, and carried the outcome in their bulletin. Apparently my friend and I didn't know every court reporter in Sydney. Our bosses phoned, angry.
Shirking wasn't really possible at AAP.
Constant deadlines, odd hours and little recognition. Some journalists whose publishers subscribed to AAP believed they owned us. "You work for us" was said often, as they tried to steer our news agenda.
But we did not work for those reporters. We worked for the public record. For the readers. There was no room for political influence or bias. Just straight, fast and accurate reporting.
There has been an outpouring of emotion from past and present staff about AAP's upcoming closure. Disbelief, shock, anger and, most palpable, grief. For one workplace to mean so much to so many is testament to how remarkable those newsrooms are.
AAP is a second-to-none training ground. It gives junior reporters the opportunity to write the country's biggest stories. It is one of the best starts you can get in Australian journalism. During four years at AAP I covered some of the most interesting court cases in Australia. I broke news of the Bali bombings to our country.
I questioned politicians, and even the prime minister (Hildebrand was right, it wasn't that exciting). And I was just 18 months into my career when I joined the place. These opportunities and the leadership of AAP's extremely skilled news men and women are what make it so special.
Journalists are mourning AAP's demise because they know it is dire for democracy. I want everybody else to know this too. AAP is our eyes watching the powerful. It keeps millions informed every day. Its closure does not mean what AAP does is no longer necessary - it's more necessary than ever. But it isn't free.
We may not be able to save AAP but we can all help protect journalism by doing one simple thing. Pay. For. News. This publication, or another. Just pay.
And know this: if you are not paying for it, it will disappear.
Its loss may be of little concern to you, until you find yourself at the end of the line with no one who will listen. When your property has been poisoned and the government has turned its back on you. When your children have been abused and the church protects evil. When your beach is disappearing and authorities appear indifferent.
When all hope is gone and you have nothing more to lose - this is when you will turn to "the media".
But if you aren't willing to pay for news in the meantime, in "the media's" hour of need, it will be gone.
