Reader(s),
It’s the half-way point in the semester. This is our last issue before Fall Break. Let’s get serious.
Journalism is difficult. Student journalism might be even harder. And doing it weekly, or daily? The kinds of stories people want to read—the 5,000 word pieces in the New Yorker, the long-form features on trendsetters and megastars like Bad Bunny or Joel Embiid, the breaking stories that gravitate to big-name publications (reduced to foreboding but cool-sounding nouns like The Post or The Times)—these kinds of stories are out of reach for most student publications.
Still, we write. Why? We know that most, if not all, of our readers are friends, or friends of friends; even the YDN’s audience is composed mostly of current or aspiring Yale students, alumni, professors, and parents. We’re all tadpoles in the same roughly 260-acre pond stretching from Dixwell and Whitney. Thinking any of us are frogs is a delusion, and leads to mistakes on all sides: readers who expect too much, writers who believe too much is expected of them, and the little head honchos (managing boards, editors-in-chief, what have you) who made this pressure-cooker system in the first place.
Sometimes we find ourselves writing to fulfill the expectations set by this system. When we do—when a tadpole finds a way to act froglike—it’s incredible and admirable. But that should never be the bar; we cannot expect anyone to be what they are not. So why do we write? Because we’re students of the artform. We have something on our mind, we see a story and we can’t help but follow it, we find our fingers drawn to the keyboard and words start flowing. And then we see fit to share those words.
But there is a lot we can’t control. How relevant our publication is to you, how many of you read our features and essays and poems—who you are at all. And we mean You—the collective mass, the Audience. You are most important because You are least important. We should not be writing to You; we’re not even sure You exist. We write because we’re banking on the odds that just one of you (singular) will dare to look at something we made with care. And maybe resonate a little with it.
Hi, you. It’s just us here, and we thank you deeply for your company.
If that’s too intimate, I’m sorry, but hey, you’ve read this far. Take a seat. Get comfortable. It’s about time we got to know each other. We love you. Did that come off too strong? It’s the truth. We love you, because creating is vulnerable. And it’s courageous to share what’s vulnerable. Just as it is courageous to sink into someone’s vulnerability. That is love.
Our relationship relies on trust. Trust relies on transparency. And we owe you transparency. On all levels. This means we—and campus publications at large—should refuse to be anything we aren’t. We are students. There are no full-time journalists here. Or at the YDN. We’re amateurs who happen to like writing enough to do it outside of class.
And the Herald knows this. We were founded nearly forty years ago as a free weekly alternative to the then-costly YDN. Now all the publications are free to read, but not to write for. We keep our democratic heart by forcing no applications, no interviews, and no grueling processes for writers or designers. We don’t even know what heeling means. Anyone can publish in the Herald. Send us your thoughts and we will sit beside you and help them become a thousand words you are proud to publish. You don’t have to write every day, every week, or even every month—write when you have the time and excitement. We know our writers are tadpoles, because we know we’re tadpoles, too.
And even so, we publish every week. Anywhere from eight to fifteen pieces per issue, from eight to fifteen different writers who wish to put their words into the world. This week, it’s eleven. Reflections, opinions, reviews, poems—eleven people sharing their voices for no damn reason except that they want to.
That is who we are. That is art. We won’t ask much from you. Just that maybe, when we’re down on one knee popping the question—Will you read me?—you might say yes.
Most Daringly,
Oscar and Will
An Editor-in-Chief, 2025-2026.
Oscar Heller was the Opinion desk editor for the 2024-25 school year. He has also been a staff writer. Currently, he is one of the Editors-in-Chief for the 2025-26 school year.
