Building My Skills, Story by Story

It took me a while to absorb the reality of my great good fortune: I was a full-fledged, full-time magazine writer soon after graduation and very grateful.

I had joined “the trades,” the world of industry-specific magazines that included prestigious titles such as Editor & Publisher and Variety before plummeting down the food chain to titles such as Candy Nut & Wholesaler, Chickens—The Essential Poultry Publication, or, in my case, Hospital Gift Shop Management.

Answering the question, “And what do YOU do?” at parties always caused me to suck in my breath. While I held my head high, almost without fail my answer led to blank stares, and my conversation partner would suddenly remember an urgent phone call he or she needed to make.

At just 22 years old, I was young and inexperienced in most of the ways of the world, including business. No one I knew personally had run a retail operation. My parents’ friends were teachers, accountants, legal secretaries, technicians, with the occasional attorney thrown in. I heard no stories about the demands or issues involved in running a business of any size. As a teenager I had worked in businesses, first at an Arby’s fast-food joint in a sketchy area close to where I lived. Our clientele included many females in the world’s oldest profession, along with their customers. I tried not to let my pity for these women show as I took their orders and served them.

Burned at the end of a shift

Once, exhausted at the end of a rare double-shift, I started my final duty of the night: clearing the fryer of bits of fallen French fries. I began to fish out the tiny pieces with the steel mesh spatula, but it began to slip from my hand. In my bone-weary state, I thought, “I can catch that before it falls in the oil!”

“When my worried mother finally called the restaurant, my co-worker, whose IQ was probably lower than that of a single French fry and who picked up the phone told her, ‘Judy? She’s not here. She’s in the hospital.’”

Actually, that was an idiotic thought that led to my being rushed to the hospital by the manager, where the sizzling oil had seared my ring and pinky fingers together. I had been too stunned by my pain to have asked anyone to call my parents and tell them why I hadn’t biked home yet. When my worried mother finally called the restaurant, my co-worker, whose IQ was probably lower than that of a single French fry and who picked up the phone told her, “Judy? She’s not here. She’s in the hospital.” Oh, poor mom! The pain was agonizing, but day by day the pain lessened. And I happily dropped by the hospital clinic several times a week, literally offering my left hand to the handsome intern who gently changed my dressings.

I also worked in a family-owned stationery store called Maloney’s. I liked the quiet atmosphere of classy stationery, fine pens, and gifts, and enjoyed helping customers – unless they asked me to gift wrap a package. I was utterly hopeless at folding the wrapping paper into those perfect triangles and taping them with Swiss precision on the sides of the box. And the bows? Let’s just say my efforts to create cascades of faux satin ringlets using the business side of the scissor induced feelings of hopeless inadequacy. Frankly, I sometimes wondered why I wasn’t sacked for this very obvious failing as a floor employee.

An early lesson in editing: check that sources still have a pulse

Meanwhile, writing for HGSM proved surprisingly satisfying. I wanted my work to be meaningful in some way, and all of us who worked on the magazine quickly grew fond of our primary readership–the mostly middle-aged and even elderly “blue-haired” ladies who usually ran those operations, sometimes as volunteers. They were in it heart and soul for the benefit of the hospital. We treated them as professionals and approached their mission with respect, serving up authoritative advice and sophisticated ideas geared for their niche market. This was a mission I could feel good about. In the process, I learned about the world of retailing from the side of management. Carol impressed me with her bountiful story ideas, and I wrote on a surprisingly wide variety of topics: how to use effective lighting in small spaces; when to risk stocking high-ticket or other unexpected items; how to work with hospital administrators; best practices in recruiting and retaining a volunteer staff; tips from security experts on preventing shoplifting; and a series on management from guest columnists.

“Of course, this was all lightweight journalism. I didn’t need a flak jacket or to smuggle myself in the back of a truck to interview a gift shop manager in Missoula, Montana about her most surprising top selling gifts for men.”

One day, the managing editor, Barbara, chose one of our stockpiled management columns for the upcoming issue. “Better call this guy’s office and make sure he’s not dead. We’ve had this one for six months,” she said in her usual flippant style, handing me the copy from her desk opposite mine. I just laughed and shook my head, but I began dialing. When I asked to speak to Mr. Collins, there was a shocked silence of several seconds.

“I’m sorry to tell you that Mr. Collins passed away in March,” the secretary told me sadly.

“He really is dead,” I told Barbara” “I can’t believe it!”

“Told you we needed to call,” she shrugged. Barbara was a good editor, but the sympathy gene in her family may have skipped a generation.

Of course, this was all lightweight journalism. I didn’t need a flak jacket or to smuggle myself in the back of a truck to interview a gift shop manager in Missoula, Montana about her most surprising top selling gifts for men. I had never imagined myself performing acts of great journalistic bravery, reporting from war zones, urban or foreign. I had enormous respect for journalists who waded into troubled regions. Reporting can be a dangerous profession, and many have sacrificed their lives to report from perilous places. I was brave, but not that brave. I would make my work count from physically safer places.

Gaining an appreciation for America’s volunteer spirit

This job enabled me to continue to build my skillset, and for now it was enough for me to write my little stories for our small but enthusiastic and appreciative readership. It was mostly happy work, writing about positive topics, and I delighted in the element of surprise when I’d cold-call shop managers or industry experts and ask for interviews. The stories gave everyone good press, so nobody ever refused. No exposes in HGSM about a Volunteer of the Month dipping into the till, or black-market baby blankets being sold in these gift shops.

“It wasn’t only my knowledge of retailing that expanded. I began to appreciate and take pride in our country’s devotion to and history of voluntarism.”

Never having lived anywhere else but Los Angeles, I got a feel for people in different parts of the country as I spoke to people from California to Vermont. I fell in love with people in the south, their authentic kindness spoken in a honey-soaked drawl. Midwesterners were also warm and friendly, and I even began to detect the subtle difference between an Illinois accent and one from Wisconsin. Some assignments were almost too fun to be considered work. At the summer gift show at L.A.’s downtown convention center, I walked miles of aisles for a story on gift trends for Christmas, filling my promo bag with samples and sampling edible treats. My assessment of plush toys grew more sophisticated (I no longer called them stuffed animals), and when a romantic relationship ended during my time at the magazine, I followed the motto of one of our advertisers, “Gotta Get a Gund,” and bought Harold, a foot-high tan Teddy bear with sincere black eyes. He was my therapy Teddy bear and I still have him to this day.

It wasn’t only my knowledge of retailing that expanded. I began to appreciate and take pride in our country’s devotion to and history of voluntarism. It was a beautiful thing, and I doubted that most other countries could equal America’s volunteer spirit. Having been raised with liberal political views, my work also softened my built-in mistrust of the business world. The entertainment industry usually framed business bosses as the bad guys; employees as victims of Dickensian greed. Sure, I was writing about philanthropic enterprises, but it still opened my eyes to real-world challenges that faced business managers or owners.

The insult that became a career booster

This didn’t stop me and my friends at work from laughing at our own bosses and their love of luxury. They drove shiny new Mercedes automobiles that we knew our work helped pay for, and we rolled our eyes at what we considered miserly holiday gifts. One year we were presented with boxed sets of dried meats and cheeses, which they bestowed on us with beatific expressions that suggested they had just handed us keys to our own Mercedes vehicles. I instantly regifted my treif holiday gift to my friends, feeling cheated even of a miserly gift. We also liked to grouse about how the bookkeeper docked us for any minute we clocked in late or took an extra five minutes for lunch.

“Judy, you’re a good writer,” Carol said, as I waited for the inevitable next word. “But (there it was) you’ll never be an editor.”

Despite these complaints, Carol was very good to me. She reviewed my early stories with me, showing me where I could have added more color and detail. This mentoring was worth more than any holiday bonus—it was a vote of confidence. When I asked Carol to let me edit a short piece for one of the other magazines, she obliged me. The day after I turned in my handiwork with my trademark overconfidence, Carol took the very unusual step of poking her head into the office I shared with Barbara. “Judy, please come to my office,” she beckoned.

My stomach lurched. What had I done wrong, I wondered?

I followed Carol down the hallway to her spacious office, admiring her day’s ensemble of peach silk blouse, tailored grey pants and designer heels. Sitting in the seat facing her imposing desk, I waited for Carol to speak and for my heart to stop thumping at breakneck speed.

“Judy, you’re a good writer,” Carol said, as I waited for the inevitable next word. “But (there it was) you’ll never be an editor.” She then recounted the many ways I had missed opportunities to clean up and refine the article I had edited. Her unexpected criticism stung badly. I also felt angry and confused. It made no sense to me that anyone who could write capably could “never” become an editor. A good writer was someone who nurtured a love and respect for the written word, who understood the ingredients of prose that flowed logically or even lyrically. A good writer was someone who was committed to the practice of writing as an art and a craft, much as a musician committed to practicing a piece, over and over and over again, until it was ready to meet its audience. The ability to pay attention to what made writing effective and affecting, to articulate ideas that would resonate, these were completely transferable skills to the craft of editing. As young as I still was, I knew this had to be true.

As Carol tutored me, I felt a fiery determination to prove her wrong. I could accept my status as a wannabe editor—that was fine. I would never accept that I had no future as an editor. A few weeks after this meeting, when I had licked my wounds, I asked Carol to let me try again. I suspect that she admired my determination and this time, she was pleased with the results. It was a very proud day for me when, a few months later, she promoted me from staff writer to assistant editor.