You Gotta Know When to Hold 'Em and When to Fold 'Em

How a rookie reporter grew up to become a responsible writer--universal lessons

(Photo by Luis Cortés on Unsplash)

I love it when subscribers ask me to consider specific topics. This time, Rudy Salo said he's interested in the mean editors I've worked for and what they taught me. Now, that's a topic I can address with confidence, so here it comes…lessons I learned.

Build relationships or find another career

When you get an assignment, you get or can come up with a lot of sources to speak to if that's what the story needs. Same is true, BTW, of the kind of writing we do here. Searching the internet is not the only or the best way of developing an idea. My first editor, who wasn't mean—he was no-nonsense direct, taught me to make people aware of me in a beneficial way. Even if the story you're working on for the day is done, call or stop by to thank someone for responding or calling you back. Ask a question that might help you with another story.

Story-telling is about connecting dots, and people are the most important dots. Stay eyes-wide-open, ears-wide-open, and mouth under control so people grow to trust you and want to speak with you.

Name the dog

This is one of my favorite anecdotes and an important lesson about making judgment calls. When I was hired by a Poynter Institute paper in the South, they hired another go-getter reporter at the same time. Our editor loved competitive challenges and thrived on pitting people against each other. The more angst that ensued, the better he liked it.

So he set a challenge—winner would get a bylined front page story solo. Challenge: Interview the person who fell into a sinkhole on his property, and his dog summoned help. No, I swear, it was true.

We both went at it full tilt. Went out in person to meet the subject. Inspected the sinkhole. Talked to the engineers and reconstruction people. I even researched the history of sinkholes and their causes. I petted the dog. Man, I had this nailed, and I KNEW I was a good writer.

Time passed, deadline came, and I filed 15 minutes early. Clean copy. Dramatic, factual, compelling tale. The other reporter got the prize. What??

Yes, indeed. The editor told me, smirking, that while my story may have technically scored more points, one thing sealed the win. The other reporter named the dog. The devil is in the details. Readers want to know stuff. The dog was a hero. Name the dog. Boom.

Be authentic and out front

It's tempting when a storyteller is gathering information to act as if you have some inside track. I got an assignment to report on a new business—a barbeque place that looked like a falling down, rambling shack but was one of the most successful, most popular places in town. A Mississippi town where people know barbeque like they know the value of the blues.

I had done plenty of formula business pieces—I knew the gig. I tracked down the young owner and asked a bunch of background questions about food, cooking, and future plans. I didn't touch on the state of the building, assuming I would offend the guy. I turned in my copy and got hauled into the editor's office. He glared over his glasses at me with his face screwed into a terrifying scowl.

"What, are you brain-dead?" he roared.

Long chastisement short, he made it clear that my job was to learn the background of the restaurant before I asked all the questions so I would know what questions to ask. He said, "You ran out there with your hair on fire like you knew everything and made an ass of yourself. You didn't bother to find out what the real story was. Go do it again. You have ninety minutes."

The real story was that this kid, now a successful restaurateur, had started his business with $150 and his grandmother's recipe book. Everyone told him he was a fool and would go belly up in a day. He borrowed a pickup and drove all over hell and back to salvage materials for his building project. Old doors, chicken coops, rusty tin roofing, anything he could nail together to form a structure. He bought enough food each day to make a batch of barbeque, sold it, and used the money to buy more. In 18 months, he had to turn overflow crowds away every day. His food was sublime (he had known it would be), and everyone loved his rickety collection of doors and stuff that housed the picnic tables and folding chairs. That was the real story. If I had let myself show what I didn't know and had asked real questions, I would have had it. I wanted to seem like I knew the ropes.

Recognize your limits and own up to them

Early on, I was simultaneously a staff reporter and freelancer pitching magazines regularly. I routinely took on workloads that pushed me to my limits, thinking that if all those editors saw what a Wonder Woman I was, my career would take a rocket course. I said yes to everything, and pride goeth, as they say.

An assignment editor has more experience, responsibility, and know-how than their writing team, or they wouldn't be in that seat. They budget staff, time, money, and stories to make sure readers are satisfied. My editor often tossed an assignment sheet toward me (after loading me up for a day or two prior) and said with an oddly expectant look, "Here ya go, Wonder Woman, are you game?"

Hell to the yes, I was always game. And I wasn't good at interpreting looks. Well, kids, one particularly busy week he shot me a high school Christmas play rehearsal to cover on Saturday morning, early. Early.

I slept through it, having failed to hear my alarm go off. OMG I was freaked out. I grabbed the phone, dialed, and spilled out a tearful apology, rending my garments and trying to be adorably sorry and overworked.

"I saw it coming. Wondered when you'd come down to earth. You're suspended for two weeks. I can't fill 10 inches of space with your apology." Call ended.

I never missed another deadline right up to today. And I learned to say no.

There it is, lessons learned from mean editors

And from experience. There's a lot more, but I also learned when to write —30— the newspaper symbol for end of story. Leave them wanting more, I guess.

—30—