STANDBY, Beth McDonough, Excerpt

Beth McDonough is a storyteller forged in fire — an investigative reporter with a heart tuned to humanity. From breaking news to battling a silent illness, she’s lived chapters worthy of memoirs — and now is writing them.  Whether it’s chasing leads or chasing healing, she’s driven to connect stories to souls.

In her memoir, Standby, McDonough takes you inside her journey from wreckage to redemption, one episode at a time.  With decades in television news and a talent for cutting through noise, her work has informed many across the country — but it’s her own story that hits hardest.  Off camera, McDonough was unraveling with an addiction to alcohol, two DUI’s, a complete career collapse and public exile.  

McDonough recounts her rise through top news markets — from Missouri to Texas to the anchor desk in Houston, and later Philadelphia and Minneapolis — covering some of the nation’s most defining moments, including 9/11, the I-35W bridge collapse, and the murder of George Floyd along with the riots afterward.

Today, McDonough is more than a journalist — she’s a survivor, a spokeswoman, a memoirist, and a lifestyle model who brings courage, finesse and an undeniable presence to everything she does. 

Prologue:

I’ve spent my entire adult life telling the stories of other people’s lives. This book describes mine, and it’s incredibly hard to share.

Chapter 1:

“Is she breathing?” a woman said. “I don’t know. I can’t tell,” another voice answered. The other women walked over to the metal cot, surrounding me, staring and wondering. “Is she even alive?” another asked curiously. “I don’t know. Should we call for help?” More women chimed in, “Why isn’t she moving? Shake her. Shake her harder.” “This is like watching a train wreck,” one of them spouted off. “Hey, pretty lady, wake up, WAKE UP!” she shouted in my face. Her coffee-ridden breath and warm spit hit my skin like an actual slap in the face. Out of disgust, I grudgingly managed to open my eyes. They whooped and hollered, “Whew!” They were all relieved. “You scared us. We thought you were dead!” “What a relief, you’re alive!” a woman announced. Lying flat on my back in a bed that’s not mine, I struggled to sit up. I found myself wearing clothes I don’t own, in a room I don’t recognize, slowly revealing myself to a crowd of curious onlookers. I lay in this strange new place, my last memory being when I left Jitter’s Bar the night before. My head pounding, my heart heavy, my eyes swollen and bloodshot, I cautioned them, “Don’t get too excited., I’d much rather be dead,” I muttered. That was because my life, as I knew it, was over, so very over. The fellow inmate who compared my life to a train wreck had no idea how right she was at that moment.

Chapter 2:

A television set was mounted in the middle of a plain, vast wall so everyone, regardless of where they sat in the holding cell, could see it. A locomotive hauling hydrochloric acid through Southern Minnesota somehow jumped the tracks and tipped over, spewing toxic chemicals all over the place.  The sprawling crash scene caught their attention, and the ladies’ interest quickly turned from the train wreck sitting in front of them on a jailhouse bed to the actual disaster on TV. My cellmates were mesmerized by the commotion and chaos on TV; their only link to the outside world. The video showed police rushing to rope off the area, deputies securing the scene, a hazardous materials team cleaning up and decontaminating the area. “It’s fortunate,” the newscaster announced, “There is some minor damage to the environment, but no one was injured.” The engineers and crew miraculously walked away unharmed. “It was their lucky day,” replied the co-anchor. At that moment in time, I realized the sad irony between that train on TV and my life right now: derailed, with collateral damage everywhere. 

So would everyone else after the next headline: “Also in the news this morning, a well-known television journalist here in the Twin Cities is under arrest for allegedly being involved in an alcohol-fueled hit- and- run.” “This is the mug shot police took of Beth McDonough a short time ago. Many of you know her as the high-profile crime reporter at another news station in town. McDonough is now facing criminal charges herself. Police say she was driving along 394W near Minneapolis on Halloween night when she rear-ended a car at highway speeds and kept going. Officers caught up with McDonough as she pulled into the driveway of her Minnetonka home. Cops say her blood alcohol level was three times the legal limit to drive. It’s her second DUI in two years. The story ends with, “We’ll keep you posted as her case moves through the courts.” 

One of the inmates turned down the volume, and they all talked over each other.  “Ouch, sounds like girl got her drink on!” one woman said sarcastically, shaking her head. Another woman shouted, “Point twenty-four?.24? Lightweight! I was pulled over with .33.” Another lady wearing the same orange jumpsuit as I wondered where police locked up this local news celebrity. “I bet she’s in here somewhere,” a woman said, and that became the consensus as the detainees stood around gossiping, a jailhouse ritual to help pass the time.  “Which unit?” one woman wondered. “Don’t know,” another woman quipped.  “Man, she’s screwed. Two d-dubs in two years? That’s no joke. Sounds like she’s a big boozer!  I’d like to party with her!” Laughs a woman. “Imagine the scoops she could tell us.? Bet that girl’s going to rehab,” an experienced inmate added. “Been there, done that…, a few times” a brunette said. 

With my head hanging in my hands, I was forced to listen to their piercing banter. I couldn’t escape the scandalous chat or leave the room because I’m locked in here. Literally, I was a prisoner of their trash- talking in a room surrounded by metal bars and armed deputies. But little did they know, the person they were mocking was among them and could hear every excruciating comment. Their conversation drowned out any remaining noise coming from the TV. Their comments confirmed my worst fear, my secret had been exposed. 

For more information about Beth and her story, please visit: https://www.bethmcdmedia.com/

STANDBY

40 year old Beth McDonough lived and breathed tv news.

Ever since she was a little girl, she wanted to be an investigative reporter, like the savvy women she watched on the nightly news growing up in Los Angeles and Oklahoma City. Beth thrived on the adrenaline of breaking a BIG story, holding the corrupt accountable, exposing public demons and covering just about any kind of tragic disaster out there: 9/11, the 35W Bridge collapse, the overdose death of Prince, the confession of monsters like Jacob Wetterling’s abductor, Jayme Closs’ escape from her kidnapper and the killing of George Floyd while in Minneapolis police custody along with the months worth of riots and racial reckoning protests that followed nationwide.

Beth worked her way up from a rookie journalist in small towns to becoming a high-profile crime & justice reporter in major cities. She earned a reputation for being tenacious and resourceful, and thriving under the pressure of constant deadlines that are the daily news machine. With every word of the scripts she wrote, Beth strived to be among the best of the best storyteller’s in TV news.

BUY STANDBY HERE

Tags: featured, women writers

Category: On Writing