I had an experience recently that truly challenged my patience and objectivity as a journalist, putting into perspective the hair-pulling, teeth-clenching, tongue-biting frustrations that come with being in this industry.

After numerous attempts at trying to get my name in something besides the school newspaper, I recently received a response from a modest local publication, looking for someone to do a profile on a real estate mogul in the San Fernando Valley.

I fervently agreed and jumped right on the assignment, eager to impress the editor with the writing talent I’ve been told I possess. Little did I know that this interview would certainly not be an exercise in my writing ability but a challenge towards my tolerance for my fellow people.

The irony behind my persona is this: I am a self-proclaimed misanthrope. As much as I love writing and dissecting my subjects, sometimes the ignorance, stupidity or lack of common sense that so many “high-profile” people own just astounds me.

Nevertheless, I booked an interview with a man so modestly referred to by this the editor as, “The Donald Trump of the San Fernando Valley.” When I arrived at Mr. “Trump’s” office, I was specifically instructed that he didn’t want to be recorded. He also insisted his assistant (reality TV actress/real estate agent/receptionist/PR person) sit in on the interview – you know, because every real estate developer is important enough to have his 17-year-old coffee runner ensure I don’t get out of line with my questions…or something.

Still, I composed myself and conducted the interview with the professionalism and “objectivity” that every journalist should – biting my tongue every time he instructed me how to write my story or change his quotes to make him sound more intelligent than he probably is. I also kept my cool when he decided this was going to turn into a PR piece instead of a profile, which I had to put a stop to numerous times.
 
When reminded of this small fact, he pretended not to hear me, all the while his mannerisms and personality being reminiscent of a cokehead – twitching and blinking his eyes rapidly and spinning around in his chair, unable to answer my questions directly. I got dizzy just watching him.

When my first interview finally concluded I made my second mistake (the first being allowing him to refuse being recorded) by agreeing to send him a copy of the article before turning it into my editor. Big mistake.

Granted, I am new in this profession, so I am fully aware that I am somewhat naive as far as what the “rules” behind a request such as this are. So, I agreed; and as some sort of consolatory parting gift for having to meet this crazy person, I was given a coffee mug and T-shirt (with the company’s logo on it, of course) to serve as a walking, talking advertisement.

But the fun didn’t really begin until after I had finished my “profile” (PR piece) and emailed it to him. (Trust me, I know where I went wrong now.)

I got a message from him later that day, telling me he wanted to make some “minor accuracy changes.” Fair enough, I thought. Since the man didn’t let me record him, there was a good chance I made some factual error, like the year of his college commencement (which, I have to add, he granted me only after much prodding.) So, I returned his call, thus sealing the fate of what was going to be the longest afternoon of my life.

To make a long and frustrating story short, my overly-urbane self sat on the phone with this man for a total of four hours, allowing him to reconstruct every sentence, every quote and every fact that didn’t somehow advertise his precious firm.

At times, I did put my foot down and refuse to change my style, but everything else was essentially redone. In all honesty, I originally thought that maybe he was doing me a favor – trying to make me a better journalist or giving me some constructive criticism to help me in the real world. But the only thing he helped me realize was my desire to drive back to his office to strangle him.

Three hundred and sixty words over my required limit later, I finally sent in “my” article to the magazine, thanking God that I was finally finished with this nutcase, and that, from this point on, I know what not to do.

Well, Mr. “Trump” not only continued to call me thrice that evening, leaving messages about changing the most mundane details of my article (“Maybe you should say, ‘he was awarded his degree’, instead of ‘he received his degree’) - anything to make him look more important.

His calls continued through the next morning with more voicemails being left: “I was thinking, maybe you should take out that part about when I worked at McDonalds.” It doesn’t seem so annoying in writing, but it took him almost 5 minutes to say that one sentence, and I had numerous, long-winded messages of similar content. I don’t think his eccentricities were due to the fact that he filled up one too many of those free coffee mugs with caffeine. I finally had to email him to leave me the hell alone, to put it kindly.

So, that is the story of my first published profile interview. Totally not worth the $35 if I were to do it again, but it only taught me a valuable lesson - and reinforced my disdain for most people. I actually think Donald Trump would be offended that someone in the L.A. area was using his moniker so carelessly; especially if he were to meet this guy.

After all is said and done, I still love what I do. Besides, if it weren’t for fanatical egoists such as this man, I wouldn’t have anything about which to write.

Unfortunately, however, most publications wouldn’t want my version of a profile. A downside in this business is that you can’t start out going Joan Rivers on everyone. Being a new journalist means sucking it up and writing a rose-colored story on someone not so rosy. You smile, nod and accept your paycheck – even if you despise them.

Besides, I’ve figured out what to do with the apparel I was given. Right above the company’s logo I’m going to have printed, “I interviewed (name of subject) and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.”