Poor, sad newspapers. Just look at them. For decades they were the mirrors and cultural/political/entertainment hubs of their communities âe” often damned good ones. Good mirrors because they reflected a true face back on itself: as careworn, flawed or corrupt as that face sometimes was. Good hubs because they could collect, sift and make sense of the gabble and hum that echoes through a hundred main streets and alleys of any town or city. They mattered, they cared and they could gather the majority of their communities around their brave fires.

Then, in the early 90s, the Internet appeared dimly on the horizon. In many newsrooms it was dismissed out-of-hand as having little to do with daily journalism and even less to do with the business of newspapering. Back then, in the early 90s, I ran a research and development lab for Southam Inc., once Canada’s largest newspaper chain, now just a newspaper memory.

The lab (called Southam InfoLab and housed in the Hamilton Spectator building) tried to make sense of electronic information and its delivery. We also tried to make sense of why, among our colleagues in the newsroom a floor above the lab, dismissal of the web was turning into distrust, disdain and studied disregard. It was clear by the early 90s that classified advertising, the bread and butter of newspapers, would soon be under attack from a growing number of websites that were starting to fill their dull grey pages with photos and herky jerky postage stamp movies. It was clear that news was bubbling up from the street and onto webpages in new, diverse and powerful ways. It was clear that niches were aggregating and telling their own stories. It was clear that smart young men and women were launching new ventures that were catching fire. Clear to everyone except for the folks who strode the floor just above our heads.

For many of them the web was becoming an infinite source of dark stories. It was where child molesters lurked, black-clad teens learned how to make bombs or cache weapons, pornographers leered and 40 year old men trolled for teenagers. Credit card cons hid behind every transaction. It frightened them and they took out their fears in the stories they told, bereft of real facts, but fueled by their vision of a strange forest where there were ghosts, the tales told themselves and their daily bread turned to bitter dust.

And, they had another monster in the closet. The web arrived at the same time as a suited cloister of MBAs âe” fresh from downsizing and rationalizing nursing homes, assembly lines and heat pump manufacturers âe” slid into management roles. They set their myopic lens on spreadsheets that could not register quality, depth, community responsibility or tradition. They were callow men with a self-interest in empty monetization and return on investment. They pulled newspapers in on themselves in a race for returns that would not arrive before the callow men had, themselves, moved on.

And so newspapers missed out. Craigslist, amazon, ebay, yahoo, google and dozens of other web entrepreneurs ate newspapers’ lunches in crumbs and slices. Newspapers should have owned the local classifieds. Newspapers should have owned online auctions, local portals, online stores and local search. They should have become the electronic hubs and silicon mirrors of their community. It was their birthright and it was lifted from their inside pockets the way nimble children steal a sleeping tourist’s wallet.

That was all years ago. Yet, here we are today and things have changed very little. I was recently at a gathering of union representatives from major newspapers across Ontario. It was sad and sobering. Newspaper owners are watching their circulation pratfall and their advertising revenue flatten. The business is sliding into what Berkshire Hathaway CEO Warren Buffet calls a “protracted decline.” And so those owners are stinting on serious investment in not only the enterprise journalism that has set them apart in the past, but also on the training, tools or time for their employees to come to terms with the changed landscape they will inhabit in the years ahead.

Many newspapers think that having a pre-screened blog, a few awkward and television-aping videoclips or a couple of podcasts means they are in tune with social media. They are sorely mistaken. Learning to put movies, podcasts and blogs online doesn’t put you ahead of the game âe” itâe(TM)s barely table stakes. Besides, this isn’t a game of skill; itâe(TM)s a game of attitude.

It’s an attitude that embraces the creation of a common good and a common ground, believes in a healthy blurring of author and audience and understands that there are experts in every walk of life who will contribute to community wisdom in a safe, inclusive and open space. It’s a belief that given that space and strong tools, a community can help cover itself.

Unfortunately for newspapers, the grumpy, grudging attitude I heard rumbling above my head ten years ago hasn’t really changed. There’s more fear now, more dread, more tired arguments about editorial authority born of baggage no one but newspaper people carry or care about. But there are few in the news business with passion, excitement and a true understanding of what it could mean to help a community be its own media, hold up its own mirror and gather around a fire it helps to build.

I used to be angry at the newspaper business for frittering away its birthright, its opportunity, its obligation. Now I just feel sad about the waste. Local papers could have provided free municipal WiFi, offered downtown offices where citizens could have told their own stories, recycled computers to local drop-in centres and used Flickr groups to gather hundreds of photos of local events.

They could have given their craftsmen real futures and new tools. Instead, many local papers just shovel their daily coverage on to dull pages and slouch towards a long goodbye. I hope I don’t live to see the last light in a print newsroom flick out, leaving a football field sized room dark in its wake.

I don’t think the newspaper business will cease to exist, but I do think it will cease to truly matter. That time has passed. I hope I never attend its real funeral, the funeral of a friend. But if I do, it will be with the deep sadness, guilt and confusion that come when someone lays aside hope, and takes their own life.

wayne

Wayne MacPhail

Wayne MacPhail has been a print and online journalist for 25 years. He was the managing editor of Hamilton Magazine and was a reporter and editor at The Hamilton Spectator until he founded Southam InfoLab,...