A few days ago I sent an email to a workmate reflecting on my dutiful attendance and his blessed absence from last Friday’s Walkley Awards for “excellence” in journalism, as they are known with the modesty typical of our industry.
I told him that if it wasn’t such a self-indulgent topic I would love to write a piece under the headline “The Party at the End of Journalism” about this morbid, wrist-slashing soiree. He urged me to write it anyway, so here goes.
Please forgive any indulgence, but given that you are a person who is engaged enough to have taken the time to click on our website, you might be interested as a news consumer in an insider’s thoughts on the future of our industry. The short answer to that question, if put to most people at the Walkleys, is that there is no future.
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Declarations of the death of quality journalism in Australia have been hugely premature, no matter how often front-bar bores and their like keep making them.
These declarations have become one of the staple gripes of hand-wringers, who often see the end of the world approaching in other areas of life. And like many of those other complaints, this one is false.
The evidence is between the hard and soft covers of the long-list finalists of the Walkley non-fiction award, of which I am a judge. The winner will be announced on November 30.
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