Goodbye, cruel world!
I mean, what's the use?
I'm a newspaper guy, and folks in my profession _ rarely peppy and optimistic even in the best of times _ have been particularly funereal lately.
Sadly, with plenty of good reason.
Every day, it seems, brings heaping portions of awful news. If it's not one Pulitzer Prize-winning newspaper keeling over, it's another one laying off multitudes of talented journalists.
All those wonderful reporters, editors, photographers, designers and copy editors thrown out of work amid dire predictions that it won't be long now before America's newspapers are extinct.
I went to sleep wondering, do I really want to live in an America without newspapers?
Nope, I would just have to end it all.
Even if he's only dreaming, a scribe does not just bump himself off without composing an informative note to be found next to his body.
In my slumber, I set out to do a proper job of it, approaching my final literary effort in the customary newsroom manner. With so many of my pals thrown out of work, I would have no dearth of editing resources.
It's not as if they might be too busy.
My first step was to consult an assignment editor. A former colleague named Jeff answered his home phone on the first ring, and I asked him how he was doing.
"I was hoping when the phone rang you might be one of the managers I applied to," he said impatiently. "You wouldn't believe how competitive the grocery store job market is these days. So, how are you?"
I informed him that I was going to kill myself and needed a story conference before I started writing my note.
I was a bit nonplused that he didn't at least try to talk me out of it. Instead, his recent newspaper experience kicked in.
"Hmmm," he said contemplatively. "I'm pretty sure you've got a good note there. Have you posted it on your paper's website?"
I informed him that I hadn't even begun writing the note yet, but he was in no mood to listen.
"Look, Sam, if you know what's good for you, you'll get that posted, and I mean right now. Don't worry that it hasn't been adequately researched or edited or all those other things we used to think were important.
"The bosses will want it on the Internet. If you don't do that, and I mean immediately, you're gonna find yourself in some real trouble."
Before I could ask what trouble I could possibly get into after doing myself in, Jeff got all excited because his cell phone was ringing. Recognizing the incoming number was from Wal-Mart, he quickly wished me luck and hung up on me.
I shrugged, and began writing. It didn't take long. Nouns, verbs and adjectives eagerly intermingled in orderly fashion, and I felt justifiably proud of my prose.
So, I e-mailed it to my out-of-work mentor, Beverly, the best copy editor I've ever worked with. She would, in fact, smack me around if she knew I ended the previous sentence with a preposition.
A half-hour later, she e-mailed me back with a suggestion. I was appalled, and called her right away.
"What do you mean, Bev, that I should outsource the editing of this note to India?"
"Why not?" she said with a rueful laugh. "Everybody else is doing it. That's why I'm out of work."
Eager for her approval, I asked Bev what she thought of my writing.
It's a little preachy," she said. "There's too much clutter, and if you keep writing those run-on sentences, I'm going to kill you myself."
"Gee, Bev," I said, "didn't you at least like the premise?"
She replied: "The longer this conversation lasts, the more the idea of your demise appeals to me. It would be nice, though, if you learned how to write better before you shuffled off this mortal coil.'"
Before I could say, "Shakespeare, right?" she too hung up on me.
I was getting more and more frustrated. If I couldn't make this note sing, I was going to die a very unhappy man.
As a last (well, sure) resort, I phoned Old Mr. Abrams, my first editor. It's funny, but back in the '60s, he was already being called "Old Mr. Abrams." He doesn't have a computer, so I read him my note.
"You're an idiot," he said with some asperity.
Nothing new there. He always called me an idiot.
"The same no-nothings who wouldn't know the inside of a newsroom from the inside of an outhouse have been saying since radio and TV began that newspapers were all going to die off.
"They were wrong then, you idiot, and they're wrong now," he said. "But even if they're right, if you're going to go down, you damn well better go down fighting.
"Winston Churchill said a free press is the unsleeping guardian of every other right that free men prize.' That's something worth fighting for, you idiot. Now, tear up that stupid note, wake up and get the hell back to work."
So, I did.
___
Sam Pollak is editor of The Daily Star. He can be reached at spollak@thedailystar.com or at (607) 432-1000, ext. 208.
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