They're not bad people, really. They put their pants on one leg at a time, just like you, just like me.
Except they really aren't good people, either. While they put their pants on one leg at a time, they think that you don't do it the right way. You need to put your pants on their way.
OK, maybe that's a bit harsh. H.G. Wells said, "No passion in the world is equal to the passion to alter someone else's draft." Even so, let me say for the record that only some editors are bad people.
The role of the editor is to bring out the clarity hidden in someone's draft. They read all the way through before making a single suggestion. They don't start out with a pencil in their hand, nor do they click track changes and immediately commence with the blood-letting.
The good ones are careful people. They are careful to see that the topic at hand is covered. They look for balance, and grammar, and stuff that writers like me always seem to forget. They remember your foibles ... like using ellipses way, way too frequently. When you write, "It's the exact same thing," they point out that exact and same are, well, redundant. They point out, appropriately so, that realtor is not realator, that toward never, never ends with an s.
It's your job to get just a little piqued because you should have known that. They also catch the misspelled names, and you really should have known that.
The problem comes in with the bad ones, those who have more confidence in their own writing, their own style, than they really should.
Just as there's over-writing, there's also over-editing. That's the work of people who can't write, so they try to hide it with a red pen on your draft. They have no appreciation for rhythm or cadence. They read somewhere that only facts matter, so why begin with "Four score and seven years ago, " when you can say "In 1776"? Geezy-peezy, you just saved four words. They cut segues and leave it to the reader to connect the dots. Sometimes, they just flat out cut too many dots. Then, there's this little thing called style, and that is what's supposed to make reading enjoyable. In search of brevity, they cut without thinking. They rearrange phrases, stripping them of the good stuff.
Even with all of this, remember that you can learn from bad editors, and really, you should. No one is above editing, even though it's kind of fun to pretend you are. It's just funner when a good editor reads your work.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
What's Important
Journalism 101 with Charles Paolino, an adjunct professor at Seton Hall University. Assignment #1: write a news story. "Put the most important facts first," he said. The entire story was maybe two paragraphs long. This was in the era long before "word processing," so his comments were typewritten on a separate piece of paper.
He underlined the first sentence and wrote: "If there's one thing this story is not about, it's this." Sentence number two was underlined similarly: "This is another." Sentence three: "This is another." I remember the fourth sentence particularly well: "This isn't even true."
He wrote that in 1977. That's 33 years ago for those of you keeping score. There was no letter grade affixed to my assignment, but even as a young cub reporter, I knew a mercy killing when I saw one.
Though his comments stung, Paolino was oh so right about writing. Put the important stuff first. It's true in a news article, a letter, a memo and in phone conversations. It's true in tweets, too, but oddly enough, some things that are only 146 characters long still tend to wander.
The goal is to let the reader know that if you stop anywhere, anytime, you still have what you need to know. This is high art in USA Today. There are those who dismiss McPaper as the chicken mcnugget of journalism. I disagree.
Too much of today's reporting makes the facts get in line behind a blathering attempt at style. Put the important stuff first. If there's one thing this blog post is about, it's that.
He underlined the first sentence and wrote: "If there's one thing this story is not about, it's this." Sentence number two was underlined similarly: "This is another." Sentence three: "This is another." I remember the fourth sentence particularly well: "This isn't even true."
He wrote that in 1977. That's 33 years ago for those of you keeping score. There was no letter grade affixed to my assignment, but even as a young cub reporter, I knew a mercy killing when I saw one.
Though his comments stung, Paolino was oh so right about writing. Put the important stuff first. It's true in a news article, a letter, a memo and in phone conversations. It's true in tweets, too, but oddly enough, some things that are only 146 characters long still tend to wander.
The goal is to let the reader know that if you stop anywhere, anytime, you still have what you need to know. This is high art in USA Today. There are those who dismiss McPaper as the chicken mcnugget of journalism. I disagree.
Too much of today's reporting makes the facts get in line behind a blathering attempt at style. Put the important stuff first. If there's one thing this blog post is about, it's that.
Monday, June 14, 2010
The Secret to Coming up with A Great Idea
I don't know what to write about.
The question I'm asked regularly is: where do you come up with all those ideas and stories for your speeches?"
I find them in what I read, and I read a lot. When I'm not writing, I'm reading. The Washington Post. Time. Business Week. The Wall Street Journal. USA Today. People (if it's free). Reader's Digest. Sports Illustrated. The New York Times. The Bible. Any blog on management, motivation or writing. Presidential speeches.
When I find something interesting, something that strikes me, I save it. I have 3-inch 3-ring binders marked "Anecdotes" ... volume 6 is right there for the taking. Sometimes it's a cartoon or an ad that strikes me. Other times (many, many, most other times), it's column three on the front page of the WSJ. Good writing and very clever while doing it.
Once you've got a folder or a file filled with clippings, you'll be surprised how flipping through those can trigger an idea.
I look for parallels. A story about a rock becomes a metaphor for a management challenge.
If you're a thoughtful reader, that's a great start to becoming a thoughtful writer. By the way, all of this is on-line and most of it is absolutely free. The sweat equity, on the other hand, is yours and yours alone.
Where do you find your ideas?
The question I'm asked regularly is: where do you come up with all those ideas and stories for your speeches?"
I find them in what I read, and I read a lot. When I'm not writing, I'm reading. The Washington Post. Time. Business Week. The Wall Street Journal. USA Today. People (if it's free). Reader's Digest. Sports Illustrated. The New York Times. The Bible. Any blog on management, motivation or writing. Presidential speeches.
When I find something interesting, something that strikes me, I save it. I have 3-inch 3-ring binders marked "Anecdotes" ... volume 6 is right there for the taking. Sometimes it's a cartoon or an ad that strikes me. Other times (many, many, most other times), it's column three on the front page of the WSJ. Good writing and very clever while doing it.
Once you've got a folder or a file filled with clippings, you'll be surprised how flipping through those can trigger an idea.
I look for parallels. A story about a rock becomes a metaphor for a management challenge.
If you're a thoughtful reader, that's a great start to becoming a thoughtful writer. By the way, all of this is on-line and most of it is absolutely free. The sweat equity, on the other hand, is yours and yours alone.
Where do you find your ideas?
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Watch Your Mouth, Please
Funny thing about being President. Every time you talk, someone’s listening. With a notepad. And a video camera. And, usually, a business card with letters that read “CNN” or “NBC” or “Fox.”
All of this begs the question: was it wise for the President – when talking about the oil spill – to say: “We talk to these folks because they potentially had the best answers, so I know whose ass to kick.”
Regrettably, we live in a day and age where it’s OK for reality to bite, for life to suck, for references to body parts to be in the mainstream … and on a t-shirt you wear to the mall.
Consider this a vote for decorum. And of all people, President Obama, as wise and intelligent as they come, well, Mr. President, you of all people should know that certain words and phrases are unbecoming … especially when coming from the Oval Office.
Is the President tough? Yes indeed. Is the President showing that he’s a man of action? It would seem so. Is he angry? He's clearly not in the best of moods. But does he need to use street rhetoric to make his point?
Hardly.
If he had said, “Trust me, the taxpayer is not going to get left holding the bag on this one,” that quote would have been on the front page just the same. Why resort to words that are unbecoming for a man in his position? Say what you will, but the Queen of England has the right idea on this one. Her language is elevated, and so is she.
And now that I think about it, so was the language of Abraham Lincoln, FDR and Dr. King.
Is there anything wrong with stubbing your toe and letting loose with a word that you wouldn’t use in front of Grandma? I think so.
But if you’re sitting down with a reporter, in front of a camera, that’s no place to say I’m-a-tough-guy-because-I-can-say-things-like-kick-some-ass. Especially if you're the leader of the free world.
This is a lesson for the White House, for your house, for the boardroom and for the school room. A little class goes a long way. Be remembered for your eloquence. It’s a better choice.
All of this begs the question: was it wise for the President – when talking about the oil spill – to say: “We talk to these folks because they potentially had the best answers, so I know whose ass to kick.”
Regrettably, we live in a day and age where it’s OK for reality to bite, for life to suck, for references to body parts to be in the mainstream … and on a t-shirt you wear to the mall.
Consider this a vote for decorum. And of all people, President Obama, as wise and intelligent as they come, well, Mr. President, you of all people should know that certain words and phrases are unbecoming … especially when coming from the Oval Office.
Is the President tough? Yes indeed. Is the President showing that he’s a man of action? It would seem so. Is he angry? He's clearly not in the best of moods. But does he need to use street rhetoric to make his point?
Hardly.
If he had said, “Trust me, the taxpayer is not going to get left holding the bag on this one,” that quote would have been on the front page just the same. Why resort to words that are unbecoming for a man in his position? Say what you will, but the Queen of England has the right idea on this one. Her language is elevated, and so is she.
And now that I think about it, so was the language of Abraham Lincoln, FDR and Dr. King.
Is there anything wrong with stubbing your toe and letting loose with a word that you wouldn’t use in front of Grandma? I think so.
But if you’re sitting down with a reporter, in front of a camera, that’s no place to say I’m-a-tough-guy-because-I-can-say-things-like-kick-some-ass. Especially if you're the leader of the free world.
This is a lesson for the White House, for your house, for the boardroom and for the school room. A little class goes a long way. Be remembered for your eloquence. It’s a better choice.
Monday, June 7, 2010
I'm Feelin' Ya. I Really Am.
When Pink sings, “Plee-ee-ease don’t leave me,” hearts across America shed a tear. Or two.
Are people crying because they’re feeling sorry for a millionaire with a bad dye job? Are they sad because Pink, well, you know, lucky in song, unlucky in love?
Not so much.
The lyricists behind Please Don’t Leave Me, Pink and Max Martin, have a secret. And that secret is fairly simple. And here it is:
The words don’t need to be syrupy. They don’t need to be a slap in the face. The thoughts don’t need to be so deep that you’re thinking, “What the heck is she talking about?”
Good lyricists know this. As human beings, our experiences are like strands of thread, each one hanging in a row, right next to each other. When writing, you don’t have to yank on those strands. You don’t have to slap them or set them on fire.
Just a gentle touch will do. A soft breeze is all you need to stir those feelings.
Each strand is an emotion, an experience we already have inside us. When Pink sings, “Please don’t leave me,” there are a whole lot of people tearing up because they remember when someone left them. They’re not crying for Pink.
The emotions being tapped are already there. There’s no need to over-write.
The gentle touch is the mark of the real writer. Quentin Tarantino’s screenplays will never last through the ages. He needs to show you the gunshot wound to the head to make you feel it. Tarantino wants you to look at the eyeball rolling on the floor and then hear the squish as it gets stepped on.
In contrast, Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho only needs a shadow to suggest that someone got stabbed by a madman, and all of the sudden, you’re afraid to take a shower when you’re home alone.
When you’re writing a letter or a birthday card or a eulogy, people already know how to feel. Don’t give them a shove when a gentle nudge will do.
Do you have a favorite example of over-writing? Can you point to someone who’s got the gentle touch, the hand of a master? Do tell.
Are people crying because they’re feeling sorry for a millionaire with a bad dye job? Are they sad because Pink, well, you know, lucky in song, unlucky in love?
Not so much.
The lyricists behind Please Don’t Leave Me, Pink and Max Martin, have a secret. And that secret is fairly simple. And here it is:
The words don’t need to be syrupy. They don’t need to be a slap in the face. The thoughts don’t need to be so deep that you’re thinking, “What the heck is she talking about?”
Good lyricists know this. As human beings, our experiences are like strands of thread, each one hanging in a row, right next to each other. When writing, you don’t have to yank on those strands. You don’t have to slap them or set them on fire.
Just a gentle touch will do. A soft breeze is all you need to stir those feelings.
Each strand is an emotion, an experience we already have inside us. When Pink sings, “Please don’t leave me,” there are a whole lot of people tearing up because they remember when someone left them. They’re not crying for Pink.
The emotions being tapped are already there. There’s no need to over-write.
The gentle touch is the mark of the real writer. Quentin Tarantino’s screenplays will never last through the ages. He needs to show you the gunshot wound to the head to make you feel it. Tarantino wants you to look at the eyeball rolling on the floor and then hear the squish as it gets stepped on.
In contrast, Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho only needs a shadow to suggest that someone got stabbed by a madman, and all of the sudden, you’re afraid to take a shower when you’re home alone.
When you’re writing a letter or a birthday card or a eulogy, people already know how to feel. Don’t give them a shove when a gentle nudge will do.
Do you have a favorite example of over-writing? Can you point to someone who’s got the gentle touch, the hand of a master? Do tell.
Do your memos require a warning from the Surgeon General?
Here’s the drill: a memo is not supposed to be a suspense novel. It’s not a historical novel, either.
A memo should be a short story, except you give away the ending right away. The mark of a great memo is that the punch line comes first.
The best memos let the reader know in a single sentence everything he or she needs to know.
“Pursuant to your request, enclosed herewith please find the details of the 22 February 2010 meeting....”
A memo should be a short story, except you give away the ending right away. The mark of a great memo is that the punch line comes first.
The best memos let the reader know in a single sentence everything he or she needs to know.
“Pursuant to your request, enclosed herewith please find the details of the 22 February 2010 meeting....”
That, my friends, is death by memo.
“Please attend our ceremony to honor employees celebrating 25 years of service, Friday, June 10, at 10 a.m. in the main conference room.”
Are there ways to shorten the previous sentence? Sure. Could it be constructed differently? Absolutely.
It’s a memo, friends, not the latest from John Grisham. There is no Memo Hall of Fame. But the readers will – in less than 10 seconds – know just about everything they need to. And that’s the way to score points in any setting.
Great memos connect with the reader right away. There’s no mystery here. A well-constructed memo puts what you need up front. It can stretch on with all sorts of intimate details, but because the punch line came first, the reader is pleased. If you make him fight for details, he might just stop reading. And then, your memo probably will go to the place where all bad memos go when they die.
It’s a memo, friends, not the latest from John Grisham. There is no Memo Hall of Fame. But the readers will – in less than 10 seconds – know just about everything they need to. And that’s the way to score points in any setting.
Great memos connect with the reader right away. There’s no mystery here. A well-constructed memo puts what you need up front. It can stretch on with all sorts of intimate details, but because the punch line came first, the reader is pleased. If you make him fight for details, he might just stop reading. And then, your memo probably will go to the place where all bad memos go when they die.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
The Secret to Defeating Writer's Block
For those of you who like the six steps to overcoming just about anything, the solution to overcoming writer’s block might be unfulfilling.
There is no such thing as writer’s block. I’ve been a writer for almost 30 years now, and it’s never happened once. Never. There is no doctor's block. No policeman's block. No chef's block.
Writer's block is an excuse.
Writing is about clarity of expression, and clarity of expression begins with clarity of thought. If it’s not clear here [reader points to cranium], it won’t be clear there [reader points to keyboard, pencil or blank piece of paper].
If you’re experiencing “writer’s block,” you’re not ready to write.
There are formulas and there are seat-of-the-pants guys. I’m in group number two, but I help people in the first group all the time.
First, you must have something to say. Think it through. What does your audience like to read about? Write about that.
Consider everything you've read, and then prepare an outline. But don't start your outline until you've thought it through. An outline can be extraordinarily detailed so as to make your English teacher proud. Or it can be a post it note with a few key words or phrases.
It’s a map. More importantly, it’s your map. An outline will lead you from a thesis to point A, B and the magical land where conclusions frolic freely. If you start writing an outline before you're clear, you will begin a sad trip to nowhere.
With outline in hand, you're ready to start the speech, the presentation, the term paper, the thank you letter, the request for a promotion.
Write as fast as you can.
Follow your outline and fill in the hard details later. If you can’t remember a number, type NEED NUMBER and move on. Don’t stop to do a word count. Don’t stop to admire your work. The satisfaction of getting that first draft out of the way is enough.
Now you can take a breath. Go outside. Click on an ad on this blog. [smile]
Turns out that writer’s block is indeed a myth. You were ready to write, and out it came. It’s no different than sitting down to a blank card and expecting a sonnet to spring forth. You’ve got to think it through … regardless how deeply your love has grown.
A graduate student from Temple University once asked me, “What do you do for motivation when you don’t feel like writing?” I was prepared for the question, and luckily enough, I’d brought my mortgage bill with me.
Be clear. Be concise. Be done.
There is no such thing as writer’s block. I’ve been a writer for almost 30 years now, and it’s never happened once. Never. There is no doctor's block. No policeman's block. No chef's block.
Writer's block is an excuse.
Writing is about clarity of expression, and clarity of expression begins with clarity of thought. If it’s not clear here [reader points to cranium], it won’t be clear there [reader points to keyboard, pencil or blank piece of paper].
If you’re experiencing “writer’s block,” you’re not ready to write.
There are formulas and there are seat-of-the-pants guys. I’m in group number two, but I help people in the first group all the time.
First, you must have something to say. Think it through. What does your audience like to read about? Write about that.
Consider everything you've read, and then prepare an outline. But don't start your outline until you've thought it through. An outline can be extraordinarily detailed so as to make your English teacher proud. Or it can be a post it note with a few key words or phrases.
It’s a map. More importantly, it’s your map. An outline will lead you from a thesis to point A, B and the magical land where conclusions frolic freely. If you start writing an outline before you're clear, you will begin a sad trip to nowhere.
With outline in hand, you're ready to start the speech, the presentation, the term paper, the thank you letter, the request for a promotion.
Write as fast as you can.
Follow your outline and fill in the hard details later. If you can’t remember a number, type NEED NUMBER and move on. Don’t stop to do a word count. Don’t stop to admire your work. The satisfaction of getting that first draft out of the way is enough.
Now you can take a breath. Go outside. Click on an ad on this blog. [smile]
Turns out that writer’s block is indeed a myth. You were ready to write, and out it came. It’s no different than sitting down to a blank card and expecting a sonnet to spring forth. You’ve got to think it through … regardless how deeply your love has grown.
A graduate student from Temple University once asked me, “What do you do for motivation when you don’t feel like writing?” I was prepared for the question, and luckily enough, I’d brought my mortgage bill with me.
Be clear. Be concise. Be done.
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