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Culture
A Tabloid Journalist Breaks Free
by Marlise Elizabeth Kast
It wasn’t as if I had intentionally set out to work for one of the lowest forms of media. It just sort of happened. As a 21-year-old Communications and English major, I longed to carry a business card that would label me as a high-profile reporter. I envisioned that I would be surrounded by ringing cell phones, my hair tied in a loose bun with a stylish pair of gold-rimmed glasses dangling from my lips. I wanted to be the one searching frantically for the taped interview for tomorrow’s cover story. I wanted to be Katie Couric.
After all, I hadn’t exactly popped out of the womb singing “Hollywood” or ever had a desire to see my face on the big screen for that matter. But somehow I ended up in Los Angeles, smack dab in the middle of the tabloids. In a city where people blend together like salt crystals in a shaker, there I was, a single speck of pepper, trying to fight my way out of the spout.
As the daughter of a minister, I was encouraged to walk the “straight and narrow path.” Each generation of my family tree had produced dedicated preachers and foreign missionaries. By sprouting off in my own direction, I was determined to avoid becoming just another typical branch in my heritage.
So, straight out of college, with few job prospects in sight, I stormed the doors of Globe magazine. My naiveté led me to believe I was applying for a job associated with The Boston Globe. The paparazzi photos covering the walls notified me otherwise.
The interview was brief due to several death threats targeting the tabloids shortly after Princess Diana’s death. The timing could not have been worse for my bold career move. At that time, however, Globe’s desperation was my ticket to employment. Consistent with my reputation for spontaneity, I accepted the offered position without knowing just how far it would take me.
The beginning was rough. As the baby of the tabloid family, I was branded a tagalong reporter, assigned to work with tabloid veterans. One of my first assignments entailed “watching the pros in action” as 12 reporters and paparazzi tried to crash the wedding of William Shatner. Despite their clever attempts, not one employee made it past the wedding doors. That’s where I came in.
Without hesitation, I ran from our Globe hideout into the bushes outside of the wedding tent. With a wine glass in one hand and high heels in the other, I squatted in the bushes and pretended to be a drunken wedding guest. The security came running to my rescue and actually threw me into the wedding. Five photos and one menu later, I was labeled the “Tabloid Prodigy.”
Within weeks, I had landed a dozen headlines, finally graduating to a full-fledged reporter, covering parties, affairs and funerals. I began to see leads as games to win rather than stories to investigate. My eyes adapted to scanning rooms in search of targets while my ears tuned into trigger words that carried me toward untold secrets. In restaurants, I learned how to block out my dinner conversation to plug into the one beside me. Gossip was everywhere and I wanted it. I didn’t actually care about scandal or celebrities for that matter. I was simply addicted to the adrenaline rush.
This mentality was difficult to comprehend. I was both pure and polluted at the same time. My real identity was lost somewhere between a minister’s daughter and a tabloid reporter. The two sides of me never seemed to mesh. I danced on Saturdays and prayed on Sundays. As a reader of scripture and a writer of gossip, I was a spiritual contradiction. I cursed God for not making me strong enough to stand or weak enough to fall. The more I embraced my job, the more my faith wavered. My mother told me she was praying for me, but I was too busy shaking hands with evil to care. Inwardly, I blamed my parents for being too consumed with the next life while I lived only for this one. And so, I danced in the garden and juggled forbidden apples.
Born and raised in a house of integrity, I was willing to lie and assume false identities to advance my career. I kept telling myself, it’s just a job, right? This is not about moral convictions. But deep inside, I was feeling torn between the devil and an angel jumping up and down on my shoulders. Inside, I pleaded with them, “Slap me with a wing or poke me with a rod, but for heaven’s sake, somebody make a move.”
And so, the devil got me. Three years and 200 bylines later, I finally cracked. Throughout my career, I had claimed to be everyone from a florist and tennis player to a mourner and bridesmaid, and somewhere along the way I lost sight of Marlise.
In a desperate quest for peace, I needed to go to a place where no one would know me as the Tabloid Prodigy. I needed to burn my masks and start again. Stripping myself of those blackened identities, I moved to Switzerland to work as a freelance journalist. Redirecting my writing, I submitted articles to publications specializing in snowboarding, kitesurfing and travel.
Action sports became my life, and in 2004, I saved enough money to take a surf trip around the world. My articles made their way into magazines like Surfer, Snowboard Journal, Foam and TransWorld. By 2007, I had visited 60 countries and lived in the Dominican Republic, Spain and Costa Rica. For way too long, this unparalleled freedom had been stifled by the corporate world. Finally I was free.
Now based in San Diego, CA, I have proudly mastered the 
ability to blend work and play. Had it not been for the past, I never would have made it to where I am now. Needless to say, the adventures are far from over.
Marlise Kast is the author of nine books, including her memoir, Tabloid Prodigy. For more information, visit www.marlisekast.com.