Column by Jim Stasiowski
Dear editors,
A new era is dawning in the career of your not-so-humble writing coach.
(It’s a small new era, but hey, I haven’t had a new era in a long, long time, so for me, it’s a big thing.)
I am moving. Granted, I’m moving only a few miles, and you probably will never know the difference, but each month I have to come up with a note that will amuse you, so I would appreciate at least some mild “Ooooohing” and “Aaaaaahing” whenever I reveal anything new.
Starting July 8, my address will be: 6310 Bayberry Court, Elkridge, Md. 21075. My telephone number will be 410 796 0210.
(For the record, my e-mail address will remain the same. Also, my Social Security No. will remain the same, my height, weight and eye color will remain the same, my middle name will remain the same. Oddly, as I age, my shoe size has gotten larger, but I cannot see that that is any of your concern.)
Since 1990, when my wife, Sharon, and I moved in with my dad, we have been taking care of my dad’s modest-sized but anachronistic house, which demands considerable attention. Unfortunately, by the time I turned 50 (eight years ago, for those of you keeping score at home), I had used up almost all the attention God had granted me, so taking care of the house was a huge burden.
When my dad died last November, Sharon and I began plotting our escape. We are going to be renting a small condo, which means I no longer will: (1) Mow the lawn; (2) shovel snow; (3) worry about home repairs that I am incapable of doing anyway.
I was not meant to be a homeowner. First of all, I am completely irresponsible. Second, … er, um … refer back to “First of all …”
So, here’s the latest installment of coaching wisdom, or, if you happen to think it merits a less lofty label, the latest installment of filler. The next one I write will be from my new home in the colorfully named community of “Elkridge.” Not sure if there are any elk there, and I don’t remember seeing a ridge, but starting July 8, it’ll have one writing coach.
My goal is that, by the time I leave, they’re calling is “Stazridge.”
Best wishes to all … jim
…
In 30 years in newspapers, I have met only one reporter who did not have a heart.
Bill would not lie, but he would do anything else to get a story. He had no compassion for sources. If he were interviewing a grieving parent, and the parent let slip an embarrassing fact about the dead child then pleaded with Bill not to use it, Bill would be unmoved. He would use it. I didn’t like Bill. He was an outstanding reporter, far better than I, but rather than take Bill’s bulldozer route, I sometimes opted to weaken a story and retain my humanity.
I hadn’t thought of Bill in a long time, until a reporter — I’ll call her Laura — came to me at the break in a seminar and posed this situation.
Laura had been interviewing the mom of a newsmaker. The idea for the story was inspired. Everything possible had been written about this newsmaker, everyone had interviewed him, he had exhausted all of his colorful quotations and profound insights.
So Laura, thinking creatively, called the mom, wondered whether mom would give a different view of her son, and mom said, “Sure, come on over, we can talk.”
In the interview, mom volunteered a fascinating anecdote about her son, an anecdote that the note-taking Laura immediately recognized as the cornerstone of her story. But, as soon as mom said it, she followed with the dreaded words: “But you can’t use that in the newspaper.”
In an instant, Laura went from euphoria to deflation. She knew that, technically, she could use the anecdote. Mom, bless her naivete, hadn’t gotten Laura to agree that the anecdote was off the record, so clearly, Laura could have done the Bill thing and burned mom.
But Laura’s heart overruled her scoop lust. The anecdote stayed hidden in the notebook.
As Laura was laying out her experience, I grimaced, and Laura took that to mean I thought she should have used the anecdote.
“No,” I said, “that’s not the case. I grimaced because I, too, have let sources off the hook, no doubt to the detriment of some of my stories.”
We’ve all been in that situation. Here are some ideas for handling it.
First, if the source is savvy and experienced, and he or she tries to talk you out of using something that slipped out, ask yourself: How valuable is the material to the story?
Obviously, if the fact or quotation is of little value anyway, you may agree not to use it. In other words, if it is funny or embarrassing, but otherwise does not help develop the story’s theme, leaving it out seems reasonable. But judge the fact or quotation on its value, not on your sympathy for the source.
Do not lose an important news story just so you can keep a savvy source happy.
Second, if the source is unaccustomed to reporters’ attention, the issue is more sticky.
Try reasoning with the source. Let’s say you’re interviewing the mom Laura interviewed, you get the same juicy anecdote, and mom asks you not to use it.
Start by saying, “Oh, geez, that’s really good, really revealing. If I use it in the story, it’ll help readers understand your son. Don’t you see that it will make him sound very human?”
If that doesn’t work, temporarily relent. But later, call mom and say, “You know, I’ve been thinking about that anecdote, and if I leave it out, readers will be missing something valuable. That anecdote makes your son come alive. I hate to write a story without it.”
Subtly, you’re implying you may not write any story unless you may use the anecdote.
The theory: When you were with mom, you planted the seed that the anecdote was special, so after you left, she probably thought about what you said. Maybe you had edged her toward agreeing, but she wouldn’t make the first move to call you.
Further, if she thinks you’re thinking about abandoning the story, she may soften even more.
Another option is actually to write the anecdote as it would appear in the story, then read it to mom over the phone.
Inexperienced news sources often cannot visualize how a fact, a quotation or an anecdote will look in the newspaper, and they assume the worst. If you show mom you’re handling the anecdote responsibly, her misgivings may evaporate.
One other possibility: If you’re losing the battle anyway, ask mom to call her son to see whether he minds if the story includes the anecdote. The odds are you’re going to lose, but letting the son know you know about the anecdote may help. He may think, “What the heck, if a reporter already knows about it, it’s bound to come out eventually, so why not just let it out?”
Or, the son may tell mom he thinks the anecdote is harmless, and she’ll let you use it.
Of course, if you’re interviewing Bill’s mom, use the anecdote no matter what she says. And call me. I have some really juicy stuff to add to any story about Bill.
THE FINAL WORD: I recently paid $6 for “Interpretive Reporting,” a 1938 textbook by C.D. McDougall, a journalism professor and the kind of cranky editor we all need.
I loved the section in which McDougall condemned “journalese,” phrases reporters invented, then beat to death. Back in the ’30s, one of our oft-repeated phrases apparently was “cynosure of all eyes.” A “cynosure” is a person or thing that is the center of attention or interest.
Hmmmmm, McDougall’s criticism seems to have killed that cliche.
Writing coach Jim Stasiowski welcomes your question and comments. Call him at 410 247-4600 or write to 5812 Heron Drive, Baltimore, Md. 21227.