The Power of a "Good Question"

I own a little voice recorder.

Maybe you’ve heard me talk about it. It’s the only real gadget that I’m proud of, which, thinking back on my last five years of technology purchases, feels strange. My laptop is lightweight and reliable, despite and possibly in spite of a sticky Shift key that I created. I didn’t last a week without spilling soda on the sucker. I have an iPad, which still feels like the most indulgent thing to say. I use it almost every day, but I’m almost embarrassed to pull it out in public. Last year, I made such a dramatic upgrade to my record player that the people at the shop said, “Congratulations!” and offered to carry it home with me. And this Christmas, in a world where we were doing just fine with our 12-year-old junker, my parents bought us a new TV.

I guess I have a lot of gadgets. I guess I’m turning into my father.

I own a little voice recorder. And I’m constantly fascinated with what it’s capable of. It’s recorded intimate phone interviews, dropped down to a whisper when I get too close to the truth. It’s kept voices clear over a chaotic backdrop. (You would or wouldn’t be surprised by how many people take phone interviews out on the street.) But more than anything, it’s never lost a single minute of these conversations. And it’s held every iteration of a “good question.”

I guess what I’m trying to say is this: it’s not a small voice recorder at all. It’s a time capsule.

I have a degree in journalism. I’m saying this because, like most stories I colloquially tell, I’m telling this story backwards. Or out of order. I often won’t get to my point until the end of a sentence, a trait that drives my partner crazy. Before I’ve even completed my breath, I hear “What are you talking about?”, interrupting the train of thought and arrangement of words. I don’t do it on purpose, but if I did it would be to make sure you’re listening. I have a degree in journalism, but I don’t ever remember taking a class in interviewing.

I do remember hating my degree, being trapped by the practicality of it. This was in 2006, 2007, 2008 — years when it was completely possible to get a staff journalism job. Years when journalism would have felt like a more stable career choice than theatre. I couldn’t imagine a world where I could do both and now I can’t imagine a life where I’m not creating art and conversing with artists, being paid to place both parts of this strange career into the puzzle of my life. I was the theatre beat reporter for my university paper. It took me ten years to come back to that.

My first professional journalism assignment was interviewing a mother whose child had drowned in their swimming pool. I do not remember anyone taking me aside, coaching me through a healthy way to approach this conversation. I also don’t remember crying, though I’m sure we both did.

I set out to write a blog post about the phrase “That’s a good question,” but I’m starting to falter.

My return to journalism was a total accident. Sara was working for Encore and knew I needed freelance work. I started pitching her and it was easy because she was my friend, because she could hold my hand a little bit. When she left that job, I stayed, negotiating for more — more work, more money, more opportunities to stretch myself. After two years, I finally felt like I knew what I was doing. So I bought that small recorder and started archiving my questions in a more permanent way.

And because I was reading and researching and putting a lot of care into my work, my sources began to use the phrase I’d longed for: “That’s a good question.” And I think I needed that. I needed that confirmation that I was doing a good job, in a world where my boss has a lot of doubt in my abilities — in a world where that boss is me. But now that I have the experience and confidence I’ve longed for, I’ve changed my mind about that phrase. I don’t actually think “That’s a good question” is a compliment. Not anymore. Because a “good question” is one you’re not prepared for, one that needs the entire “that’s a good question” phrase to fill time and come up with an answer. And I want to challenge you; I want every question to be “good.” So good that you can’t distinguish one from the other. I want to make you think.

I had an okay interview this morning. It’s snowing (or it was) and my source didn’t show up and we ended up talking on the phone instead of in person. And even though I couldn’t see their face, or determine if the gap in audio was silence or lost connection, I knew that I didn’t ask a single “good question.” They were prepared and embarrassed, a weird combination. And so they rushed to get through it. And I did not slow them down.

I’m finally out of my head, a place I keep burrowing into and crawling back out of. I’m finally out of my head today.