Hey, Tom Duggan: You’re Doing It Wrong

I like Tom Duggan, editor of one of my local newspapers, The Valley Patriot. Against heavy odds, he started his paper nine years ago to compete with The Eagle-Tribune, the dominant daily of the Merrimack Valley region, and it’s been a big success.

Mood music:

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As a former Eagle-Tribune editor, I’ve enjoyed Duggan’s effort. I have bad memories from my days there, much of the grief self-inflicted, some of it the byproduct of spending too long in the viper pit that is the typical daily newsroom. I couldn’t help but take joy in the fact that my old bosses had a fight on their hands.

In recent years I’ve mellowed. I wasn’t the most pleasant guy to work with, and I’m grateful for enduring friendships I made despite that. I’ve also enjoyed a fair amount of career success since then, so dwelling on the past lost its luster. Still, I’ve continued to enjoy Duggan’s effort.

But there’s something in his approach that annoys me as well. He’s an over-the-top gloater, and it hurts people who don’t deserve it.

Yesterday, Duggan was on Facebook delighting in a shakeup in the Eagle-Tribune newsroom. Publisher Al Getler was fired, and Salem News Editor Karen Andreas was apparently brought in to replace him. Duggan referred to Getler as “puppetboy” (Getler is a ventriloquist as well as newspaper publisher) and celebrated the man’s downfall with child-like glee.

In the past Duggan has picked on E-T reporters, some by name, and boasted mightily over scoops he has had enjoyed. He’ll usually go on about all the news he broke while E-T reporters and editors were asleep at their desks. He often frames E-T staff as clueless and plays up how great he is by comparison.

The more grownup thing to do would be for Duggan to keep his wins to himself. Die-hard newspaper readers know when one paper beats another, and gloating comes off as childish.

Duggan should also check his facts; the gloating he does isn’t always true. I’ve watched him brag about scoops only to go to the E-T website and find the same story covered, often at more depth.

Boasting about scoops these days is especially childish because it’s become all but impossible to tell who is really first in this age of Facebook and Twitter. A private citizen can hear something on a police scanner and tweet the news, and suddenly they’re the one with the scoop.

I also know as a veteran journalist that it’s not always better to be first. Many stories need to be covered more slowly, more deliberately and with greater sensitivity, especially after a terrible tragedy.

As imperfect as The Eagle-Tribune is, the staff are far from clueless. I’ve seen them in action and have been part of it. Two Pulitzer Prizes testify to the paper’s dedication and endurance.

Congratulations on your success, Tom. But don’t let the need for bluster cheapen your victory.

Tom Duggan

‘Help’ Might Be the Best Four-Letter Word Out There

A topic I’ve visited often here is the shame people feel in asking for help. When we do so, we think we’re being weak, selfish and all-around pathetic. But, as I’ve said, that’s bullshit. Another blogger made the point so eloquently this week that it must be shared.

Mood music:

Jennifer Pastiloff is a writer, retreat leader and yogi with a popular blog called The Manifest-Station. Monday, at the very end of “Bitch Slap It,” she captured the power of getting help with a simplicity and directness that hit me where I live:

Asking for help is just about the best thing any of us can do. Most people don’t know this secret (so please pass it on if you would). What we think we know is usually miniscule compared to what we really don’t know at all and what we don’t know is how the world will open up and show us that we are held.

So when you say I am on a journey to be a spiritual being and I AM STUCK! I need your help I’d like to point out that the help has been granted. It’s right here. And here. And there.

Also see: “To a Friend: Your Pride Is Killing You” and “The Liar’s Disease

I recently heard a talk from Cardinal Sean O’Malley in which he called love his favorite four-letter word. It’s a favorite of mine, too. But I hold help in equal esteem.

It’s probably one of the more misunderstood words out there. We’re bombarded almost from the moment we’re born with platitudes about how as American citizens, we can achieve anything we set our minds to. There’s truth in that, but it often gives us the false notion that greatness, even simple happiness, for that matter, is something we can rightfully lay claim to only if we achieve it all on our own. To ask for help along the way is the mark of a sissy, a coward, a lazy soul, a clingy, needy child.

What a crock of shit.

Asking for help is the mark of courage and reason. When you realize you can’t get somewhere on your own and you invite people to join you on your journey, you’re doing something selfless and giving, something generous. Not just because you’re letting people into your life, but because once you reach a certain point in the journey, you inevitably start giving back.

The person who helped you will eventually need help, too. And you will be there for them.

Thanks for the reminder, Jennifer.

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Horse Platitudes

PLATITUDE: A banal, trite, or stale remarkMerriam-Webster Collegiate Dictionary

CNN online has an article about “instant outrage,” something that has reached absurd levels in this age of social networking.

In such moments of outrage, we’re dropping platitudes all over the place. A good example came after the Sandy Hook massacre, when the debate about gun control was re-ignited. Those against more gun control trotted out the old, tired, “Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.”

Mood music:

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We’ve become addicted to platitudes. Platitudes about politics, religion, parenting, education and, most annoyingly, celebrities who show their humanity.

The political stuff has been loudest this past year because of the presidential election and President Obama winning a second term. My conservative friends litter Facebook with grand statements about how the president is a freedom-hating, baby-killing, money-stealing dictator. My liberal friends make big statements about Republicans as wealth-obsessed, war-obsessed, mean-spirited bastards who are happy to crash the nation’s economy in an act of spite.

Both sides overreact, but don’t ever try to tell them that. They’ll just drop more platitudes on you.

There are some well-meaning platitudes, and I appreciate the attempt at good feelings. But they still annoy.

For example, there are the countless sayings and cartoons about depression not being about weakness but about being strong for too long. My fight against my own depression and that of others is well known here, but really, people, is the overbearing mush really going to save any lives? I think not.

The same goes for the online platitudes comparing cancer patients to Klingon warriors defeating the evil disease in glorious battle. That one doesn’t bother me quite as much. If it gives the many cancer patients I know the moral boost to fight on, so be it.

Overall, though, the lack of restraint in the proclamations we make has become a problem. They make us feel better about ourselves, and thinking oneself better than others can lead to unfortunate side effects, like being an asshole.

If we don’t rein it in, evolution is going to retaliate by giving us new, larger mouths with larger tongues and teeth. In a few generations, we’ll all resemble Mr. Ed.

What I just said might be interpreted as a hatred of horses because of their big mouths. In no time, there will be pictures of me on the Internet killing horses and putting them in burgers.

It won’t ring true, but it’ll be re-posted often. Because in our addiction to platitudes, we won’t be able to help ourselves.

Horse

Love in the Grammar Trenches

Since Erin and I are both writers-editors, there’s almost a Valentine’s-Day quality to this National Grammar Day. It can be a dangerous thing putting two wordsmiths together in holy matrimony, and yet we’ve managed to keep it going.

How, you ask? I’ve been thinking about that.

A basic truth about people who work with grammar for a living: Put more than one in the same room for long periods and someone gets roughed up. People like us are brutally opinionated when it comes to words, sentence structure and punctuation. Our honesty over said opinions makes us abrasive, harsh, volatile, picky, critical and just about every other unpleasant word you can think of.

The danger is especially palpable when one person is doing the writing and the other is doing the editing.

In talking with newspaper reporters and editors, we all tend to agree that newsrooms are like viper pits. We all slither around looking for someone to bite while trying not to get bitten back. When you get bitten, the venom stings like no other pain known to human beings.

I’m a product of newsrooms. I’m especially difficult, because I also grew up in Revere, a city notorious for mispronouncing the English language. Erin comes from office environments that are more reserved and quiet, but no less volatile. We’re English majors who met at Salem State College (now University), but she edited the literary magazine on campus and I wrote for the newspaper. Though both were on the same small campus, they inhabited two different worlds.

The college paper is in the basement of the student union. Today there’s a nice TV and carpeting in there. But in my day it was dirty and smelly, thanks to a leaking grease pipe in the ceiling (a cafeteria was above us). We swore a lot in that room, and we yelled at each other quite a bit. Across campus, the literary magazine met in the library, a quieter environment, for sure. The newspaper worked in prose. The literary magazine worked in poetry.

In those environments, so different and yet so similar, Erin and I met and started dating.

Twenty years later, we still have our differences in the grammar department. I have no qualms about dropping cuss words into my copy. You won’t find Erin doing that anytime soon. She’s meticulous in her planning, using outlines and heavily polishing. I just dive in with my two typing fingers and go to town, without a filter. That’s gotten me into some trouble.

Also see: “Marital Differences in Style,” Part 1 and Part 2.

Now we’re partners on The OCD Diaries. I write the posts and she edits them. We both plan strategy and design, and she manages a lot of the marketing and back-end tasks my brain can’t always comprehend. We have our share of arguments on the direction of this thing. But taken whole, it works. The resources section and cleaner, more elegant design? Her ideas. The use of sidebars and more sophisticated use of photos? I give her credit for that, too. She also keeps me honest in the writing, calling bullshit when she thinks I’ve written something that doesn’t ring true.

Meanwhile, I push her to try things that are often less focused and rougher around the edges than she’d prefer. I also ensure that she’s listening to more of my heavy metal music. She checks the mood music to make sure the Spotify player is working properly, and I’m amused when Facebook announces that Erin Brenner is listening to Dead Kennedys, King Diamond or Iron Maiden on Spotify.

I think what works is that she’s always accepted my crudeness and I’ve always accepted her critical sensibilities.

In the world of grammar, writing and editing, as in the rest of our marriage, we fill in each others’ gaps.

copyedits

A Revere Kid Celebrates National Grammar Day. Punk-uation, Anyone?

Tomorrow is National Grammar Day. For writers and copyeditors (my wife is both), this is kind of like St. Patrick’s Day and Easter rolled into one. Erin plans to stay glued to her desk all day, weighing in on all the conversation that comes rolling off the Twitter tongue. Given her job, she has no choice, really.

Mood music:

Being a writer and editor myself, I should be just as excited. But I’m from Revere, Mass., where destroying grammar is a rite of passage. And since I write more often than edit, I’ve developed a rather cantankerous relationship with the copyeditors I work with. Sure, I love ’em and all, but sometimes I can’t help but slip in deliberately bad grammar for fun.

Split infinitives? Love ’em. One-line paragraphs? Love ’em. Saying “love ’em” instead of “I love them”? Love that, too.

Coming from Revere, I usually speak without the use of the letter r at the end of a word when it’s supposed to be there. I also use things like killa and pissa at random.

There was a time when I tried to conform. Once I realized I wanted to write, I chose English as a major and communications as a minor. I buried myself in the art and law of sentence structure, punctuation and even speech. I took a public speaking class specifically to work on saying the r at the end of the right words.

You could say I was turning my back on my Revere heritage.

As I hit middle age, my rebellious streak re-asserted itself.

All that said, I am grateful for the editors in my life, especially my wife, for trying to keep me on the write path. (You see what I did there?)

Happy National Grammar Day, y’all.

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