If there's one thing you need to know about Gary Smith, he's the greatest magazine writer that ever lived – winner of four National Magazine Awards, the most out of any writer––ever.
His understanding of the art of the long-form narrative is unreal. He's on a whole other level, in a another galaxy, compared to the writers below him. I have been lucky enough to email back and forth with Smith; he's critiqued a few of my narratives I've written, and for that, I'm grateful. Smith broke down everything I wrote, told me what I did wrong, and gave me tips on what I should have done.
But that's for another day, another post.
This Smith's take on the art of lede writing. Those first few words, sentences that capture your reader and draw him into the story. Forget everything you might have learned about ledes in journalism school, these words will change your writing forever.
"It's very hard to explain ledes. You're asking your reader to step across a threshold, inviting him to enter another world, often where metaphor and symbol and imagination reign, a place where he might meet himself in some other form, might meet truth through another man’s flesh and blood. You’re attempting to cast a spell, to make time vanish. You’re attempting magic, so the first words are vital. Magic doesn’t happen through the use of mundane words; you want words that have a special glow. Not by using big, shiny, impressive words that display your vocabulary; more often there’s a magical power in simplicity, but those simple words should imply more, much more. Don't dawdle or waste words; not one can be wasted here. Not one can be too much or too little. Every one must be just right. You might spend all day to get two or three paragraphs on paper, and the next day getting those three paragraphs right. Because if you think you got them right on the first go, you’re lying right in front of the mirror.
First, I try to look over all my material and think about it for a long time. Of course, even as I'm transferring all my notes from notepads into the computer, I"m thinking about what the material means in a deeper sense, what the undercurrents are. I'll be scribbling down lots of questions to ask to flesh out ideas that are forming about what's really going inside a person or inherent in that person's relationship to a particular situation.
Throughout the whole process, I'm asking myself: What does this particular story really have to say about human beings or life? What's the real heartbeat of this story? Once I can say what that is in a few sentences, then I think about how I can show that rather than come right out and say it. This helps me begin to form a structure for the whole piece in my mind.
Which brings me, then, to the lede. I need to feel that room I'm inviting the reader to come and sit down in, in order to make the reader feel it and enter. Often, you'll want your lede to give some signal of impending conflict. Sometimes, depending on the story and the character, it might start right inside the furnace of a man, right inside of his conflict or hunger or confusion. Sometimes, if the larger context is what really matters in a story -- i.e., a relationship to other factors -- it might start as if we're looking down on the person and situation from a star a million miles away. Perhaps it's in that context that we begin to see the conflict that really matters in the story, or signs of impending trouble that we're going to explore as we go along.
Much of this has to do with your ability to think, and see larger context, to see and sense conflicts between opposites that are at play in mankind, in general, and in each one of us. So I'm guessing your ledes will improve the more you read, the more you think, the more you travel, the more these tensions that are everywhere at play become more and more apparent to you. Once you are better able to identify them, they'll open up your line of questioning of your characters. Not that you'll necessarily begin asking them large and abstract questions, but very concrete questions that will confirm or deny or refine your instincts about these undercurrents, these larger themes and ideas that might be at play here.
Don't let all this sound or seem too large or abstract. Trust that if you're hungry to understand human beings, eager to read and think and learn, this will come with time and experience. Applying these questions to yourself -- how and why you react to things the way you do -- will help you see it and identify it in others, because most of these things are universal. In the meantime, as you work toward all that, just try not to let yourself wander aimlessly into a story by describing settings. Ledes will never come easy. Just remember, they're the doorway into something larger, and they'll become more apparent to you once you've got a better grasp on what that 'larger' is."
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Monday, April 11, 2011
The Long Fall From Grace
If you watched the Masters on Sunday, you then saw the double-headed nature that is the game of golf.
The reemergence of a Tiger, as he stroked his way from seven shots back to a temporary share of the lead, only to finish tied for fourth; an almost no-named winner in Charl Schwartzel, a man who, by American standards, is missing two letters in his first name; and a 21-year-old phenom, Rory McIlroy, who made the hard, bone-breaking fall from sole possession of first to a tie for 15th, a more than $1.3 million slide and 10 strokes off Schwartzel's winning mark.
McIlroy, the fair-skinned, messy-haired Irishman, shot a brutal 8-over-par, 80 on the day – 43 of those strokes coming on the back nine alone. Golf had carried him to new heights for 63 holes, and the remaining nine swallowed him and passed him like a beer fart in the wind.
It was undoubtedly painful to watch his struggles on the final nine: the seven on the par-4 10th hole as he found spots on the course that commentators said no golfer has been before, the bogey that followed, and the double on the par-3 12th. The shots weren't there and the putts refused to fall.
On his drive on the par-5 13th, McIlroy's drive found the running water in Rae's Creek. His face sank into his arms that rested on his driver. During the fall, he looked frustrated, disgusted, confused and sad. It was the moment he went on to say that he knew he had lost it.
Having been a golfer all my life, my stomach turned watching McIlroy tank. It's not easy holding the lead of a golf tournament. The game becomes more mental than physical. You begin to doubt yourself, second guessing every decision than trust your instincts, your natural ability to play the game. That five-foot putt that seems routine, now looks 20-feet with a double break; the trouble on the left as you step on the tee box becomes even more daunting; and the pressure to string together a few good holes is expounded enormously. And it's the ability to ignore those factors that separate the legends from just being good.
But there was also a beauty in his fall from the top. Through his missed putts, his wayward drives, before our very eyes was the young McIlroy making the next step in his transition to greatness, learning the true meaning of what it is to be a champion: To be one of the best, you have to see and feel the worst.
One day his inexperience will disappear, his nerves will subside, and the mental strength that he so lacked Sunday will prevail. He proved that with brief words walking off the 18th hole.
"It was a character building day, put it that way," he said in his thick Irish accent. "I'll come out stronger for it."
The words spoken of a true champion.
The reemergence of a Tiger, as he stroked his way from seven shots back to a temporary share of the lead, only to finish tied for fourth; an almost no-named winner in Charl Schwartzel, a man who, by American standards, is missing two letters in his first name; and a 21-year-old phenom, Rory McIlroy, who made the hard, bone-breaking fall from sole possession of first to a tie for 15th, a more than $1.3 million slide and 10 strokes off Schwartzel's winning mark.
McIlroy, the fair-skinned, messy-haired Irishman, shot a brutal 8-over-par, 80 on the day – 43 of those strokes coming on the back nine alone. Golf had carried him to new heights for 63 holes, and the remaining nine swallowed him and passed him like a beer fart in the wind.
It was undoubtedly painful to watch his struggles on the final nine: the seven on the par-4 10th hole as he found spots on the course that commentators said no golfer has been before, the bogey that followed, and the double on the par-3 12th. The shots weren't there and the putts refused to fall.
On his drive on the par-5 13th, McIlroy's drive found the running water in Rae's Creek. His face sank into his arms that rested on his driver. During the fall, he looked frustrated, disgusted, confused and sad. It was the moment he went on to say that he knew he had lost it.
Having been a golfer all my life, my stomach turned watching McIlroy tank. It's not easy holding the lead of a golf tournament. The game becomes more mental than physical. You begin to doubt yourself, second guessing every decision than trust your instincts, your natural ability to play the game. That five-foot putt that seems routine, now looks 20-feet with a double break; the trouble on the left as you step on the tee box becomes even more daunting; and the pressure to string together a few good holes is expounded enormously. And it's the ability to ignore those factors that separate the legends from just being good.
But there was also a beauty in his fall from the top. Through his missed putts, his wayward drives, before our very eyes was the young McIlroy making the next step in his transition to greatness, learning the true meaning of what it is to be a champion: To be one of the best, you have to see and feel the worst.
One day his inexperience will disappear, his nerves will subside, and the mental strength that he so lacked Sunday will prevail. He proved that with brief words walking off the 18th hole.
"It was a character building day, put it that way," he said in his thick Irish accent. "I'll come out stronger for it."
The words spoken of a true champion.
Friday, April 8, 2011
A Moment of Panic
In the midst of my hour and a half long morning wake up today, I was dozing in and out of sleep waiting for the very last moment to bolt out of bed, shower and make it to work.
As I laid drifting in and out, the journalism gods felt the need to play a dirty, dirty prank.
I slipped off into a dream in a newsroom. I was just handed an assignment to do a feature story on two baseball players – twin guys, if I recall, and they were some of the top players in the state. I made my phone calls, setup my interviews and was prepared to head out and do my story. But on the way out, I went home and took a nap.
Then, suddenly, I woke up in a moment of panic – a freak-out moment if I've ever had one. "OH, SHIT! I have a story to do!" My mind started racing with solutions of how I was going to do my track down the players, the coach and finish my story by 10:30. But it was still 6:30, I had four hours to take care of everything. So I did what any good journalist would do at that time.
I went back for another 30 minutes of sleep.
Somewhere in that time, what I think was me asleep – maybe something more of my subconscious talking to me – I realized I didn't have a story due and it was all a dream.
I woke up a bit confused. As I laid in bed my head swam as I wondered if I had a story due or if it was just all a sick, nasty prank the journalism gods decided to play.
Just an fyi, j gods, April Fools Day was seven days ago. You're a little late.
This isn't the first time, though, that I've woken up in cold sweats freaking out about something journalism related. When I was promoted to editor at my first paper, the News-Register out at North Lake College about three years ago, getting a good night's sleep then was pretty tough. In between my panics of worry that I got a fact or two wrong in a story, I was also designing the paper at the time, and that's where the most trouble came.
Most nights, after sending the paper to press, I'd go home and relax. And once I drifted to a hard sleep came the nightmares: did I change the headline on the front page? Oh, shit, did I change the dummy copy to the real story and is the jump right? You're sure that photo matches the story, right, dumbass? You may laugh, but these were legit concerns. And my panic would not only last through that dream, it carried over for the weekend and didn't ease until I saw the paper on Monday. (At the N-R, we sent the paper to press Friday night and it was delivered on Monday.)
Then, I guess, once I got a few papers under my belt and gained some confidence, the dreams – er, nightmares, I suppose – subsided and all was well once more.
But now they're back. And hopefully it's all just one sick prank. If not, journalism gods, this means war.
As I laid drifting in and out, the journalism gods felt the need to play a dirty, dirty prank.
I slipped off into a dream in a newsroom. I was just handed an assignment to do a feature story on two baseball players – twin guys, if I recall, and they were some of the top players in the state. I made my phone calls, setup my interviews and was prepared to head out and do my story. But on the way out, I went home and took a nap.
Then, suddenly, I woke up in a moment of panic – a freak-out moment if I've ever had one. "OH, SHIT! I have a story to do!" My mind started racing with solutions of how I was going to do my track down the players, the coach and finish my story by 10:30. But it was still 6:30, I had four hours to take care of everything. So I did what any good journalist would do at that time.
I went back for another 30 minutes of sleep.
Somewhere in that time, what I think was me asleep – maybe something more of my subconscious talking to me – I realized I didn't have a story due and it was all a dream.
I woke up a bit confused. As I laid in bed my head swam as I wondered if I had a story due or if it was just all a sick, nasty prank the journalism gods decided to play.
Just an fyi, j gods, April Fools Day was seven days ago. You're a little late.
This isn't the first time, though, that I've woken up in cold sweats freaking out about something journalism related. When I was promoted to editor at my first paper, the News-Register out at North Lake College about three years ago, getting a good night's sleep then was pretty tough. In between my panics of worry that I got a fact or two wrong in a story, I was also designing the paper at the time, and that's where the most trouble came.
Most nights, after sending the paper to press, I'd go home and relax. And once I drifted to a hard sleep came the nightmares: did I change the headline on the front page? Oh, shit, did I change the dummy copy to the real story and is the jump right? You're sure that photo matches the story, right, dumbass? You may laugh, but these were legit concerns. And my panic would not only last through that dream, it carried over for the weekend and didn't ease until I saw the paper on Monday. (At the N-R, we sent the paper to press Friday night and it was delivered on Monday.)
Then, I guess, once I got a few papers under my belt and gained some confidence, the dreams – er, nightmares, I suppose – subsided and all was well once more.
But now they're back. And hopefully it's all just one sick prank. If not, journalism gods, this means war.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Words of Wisdom: Chris Jones
When the opportunity arises, I seek writing advice for the words I've written. Mostly it's after I've written a new profile or dipped my hand in attempting a new narrative piece. I want to better myself and find out what I'm doing right and the many, many things I need to improve on.
Not always will I get a response on my queries. Gary Smith, a senior writer at Sports Illustrated and probably the greatest magazine writer out there, has been gracious enough on multiple occasions to critique my words and help further my writing.
I also read tons of forums and blog posts, I listen to podcasts and watch interviews, all in which a great writer has contributed. And one day I got to thinking: while it's all out there for the world to find, why not condense it into one place for all the other writers, like me, who are looking to better themselves.
So, ladies and gentleman, I present you a new segment I'd like to call Words of Wisdom.
Every so often, I'll post some advice I've either received personally, or advice found from some of the best journalists and writers that have graced us with words on a page.
Some of the words will come from the same person multiple times. Some will come from up and comers who finally landed their big break. But they all have made it to the big show and are kind enough to offer a few words of wisdom.
Today, we'll start with Chris Jones, writer at large for Esquire.
For those of you who don't know Jones, he's the winner of two National Magazine Awards, an award equivalent to the Pulitzer Prize for newspapers, for his stories The Things That Carried him, the story of Sgt. Joe Montgomery's return to the U.S. after dying in Iraq; and Home, the story of two American astronauts stranded on the International Space Station after the space shuttle Columbia exploded leaving them with no way home.
Unfortunately, I've never had the chance to speak one on one with Jones, but I follow his blog religiously. The other day in his post, Gone, Baby, Gone, he said:
"In a lot of ways, I am lucky. I have nearly everything I've wanted. But here's an ugly little secret: Once you get a taste of what that's like, once you get where you think it is you want to go, that only makes your wanting worse. Whatever that longing is, whatever that ambition is, it has a stronger grip on me now than it ever has. Nobody tells you that. Nobody tells you that only once you get to the top of that mountain you're climbing will you see the mountain you should have been climbing all along."
I don't know if truer words have ever been written.
Is that not true for all up-and-coming writers? You start out in college, let's say, with the dream of being hired after graduation to a newspaper. You start out in a small town daily with the goal to move to a bigger paper, to a bigger, until your writing is so good, you're working for The New York Times or writing for Esquire.
For me, that dream is to one day own my own magazine. Crazy, yes. But it's the mountain I climb every day.
It's a fight to keep that dream alive. I can only hope for me, and all of you, that one day, nearing 70, you can look back and see gaze upon all the mountains you've topped, and the dreams you've achieved.
But, for now, it's time to get back to climbing.
Follow Jones's blog here.
Jones is on Twitter @MySecondEmpire.
Next Words of Wisdom, Gary Smith on lede writing: You're doing it wrong.
Not always will I get a response on my queries. Gary Smith, a senior writer at Sports Illustrated and probably the greatest magazine writer out there, has been gracious enough on multiple occasions to critique my words and help further my writing.
I also read tons of forums and blog posts, I listen to podcasts and watch interviews, all in which a great writer has contributed. And one day I got to thinking: while it's all out there for the world to find, why not condense it into one place for all the other writers, like me, who are looking to better themselves.
So, ladies and gentleman, I present you a new segment I'd like to call Words of Wisdom.
Every so often, I'll post some advice I've either received personally, or advice found from some of the best journalists and writers that have graced us with words on a page.
Some of the words will come from the same person multiple times. Some will come from up and comers who finally landed their big break. But they all have made it to the big show and are kind enough to offer a few words of wisdom.
Today, we'll start with Chris Jones, writer at large for Esquire.
For those of you who don't know Jones, he's the winner of two National Magazine Awards, an award equivalent to the Pulitzer Prize for newspapers, for his stories The Things That Carried him, the story of Sgt. Joe Montgomery's return to the U.S. after dying in Iraq; and Home, the story of two American astronauts stranded on the International Space Station after the space shuttle Columbia exploded leaving them with no way home.
Unfortunately, I've never had the chance to speak one on one with Jones, but I follow his blog religiously. The other day in his post, Gone, Baby, Gone, he said:
"In a lot of ways, I am lucky. I have nearly everything I've wanted. But here's an ugly little secret: Once you get a taste of what that's like, once you get where you think it is you want to go, that only makes your wanting worse. Whatever that longing is, whatever that ambition is, it has a stronger grip on me now than it ever has. Nobody tells you that. Nobody tells you that only once you get to the top of that mountain you're climbing will you see the mountain you should have been climbing all along."
I don't know if truer words have ever been written.
Is that not true for all up-and-coming writers? You start out in college, let's say, with the dream of being hired after graduation to a newspaper. You start out in a small town daily with the goal to move to a bigger paper, to a bigger, until your writing is so good, you're working for The New York Times or writing for Esquire.
For me, that dream is to one day own my own magazine. Crazy, yes. But it's the mountain I climb every day.
It's a fight to keep that dream alive. I can only hope for me, and all of you, that one day, nearing 70, you can look back and see gaze upon all the mountains you've topped, and the dreams you've achieved.
But, for now, it's time to get back to climbing.
Follow Jones's blog here.
Jones is on Twitter @MySecondEmpire.
Next Words of Wisdom, Gary Smith on lede writing: You're doing it wrong.
A Voice, A Feeling
Since I've moved out here and started working for the Banner-Press nearly seven months ago, I've realized that, for one, my writing has improved tenfold. But two, there's been a little voice in my head – maybe more of a gut instinct – that I've developed.
It tells me when I'm not doing the job I should be, letting me know that I should make that extra phone call or ask that extra question. At first – and I think it's always been there, but now it's really surfacing – I ignored it. But every time I sit down to write after pushing it aside, I know I'm not doing my best work. And sure enough, as I'm writing, that extra question I didn't ask, that five-minute phone call I didn't make, always comes up.
As a writer, you can't lie to yourself. You can write around the sentence of that unasked question, or rework your story to cut it out completely, and while the readers won't know the difference, deep down in your heart of hearts, you know. And for me, having that feeling hit my gut or that voice saying "You dun fucked up," is painful. Every time going back and reading that story – especially if I think it's some of my better work – the missed question, the extra phone call I didn't make, the extra piece of information I failed to look up, sticks out like a sore thumb, haunting me to no end.
The opposite is true, too. The times I've listened to that voice – "Ask that extra question, dumbass" – I have a better feeling going back and writing that story. That punch in the gut is replaced with knowing I'm ready to sit down and tackle this bitch head on, that nothing will stop me.
One day, I want my name to be up there with the Chris Joneses, the Gary Smiths and the Tom Junods. And the cold-hard truth is, that voice – that feeling – is the saving grace that will help get me there.
It tells me when I'm not doing the job I should be, letting me know that I should make that extra phone call or ask that extra question. At first – and I think it's always been there, but now it's really surfacing – I ignored it. But every time I sit down to write after pushing it aside, I know I'm not doing my best work. And sure enough, as I'm writing, that extra question I didn't ask, that five-minute phone call I didn't make, always comes up.
As a writer, you can't lie to yourself. You can write around the sentence of that unasked question, or rework your story to cut it out completely, and while the readers won't know the difference, deep down in your heart of hearts, you know. And for me, having that feeling hit my gut or that voice saying "You dun fucked up," is painful. Every time going back and reading that story – especially if I think it's some of my better work – the missed question, the extra phone call I didn't make, the extra piece of information I failed to look up, sticks out like a sore thumb, haunting me to no end.
The opposite is true, too. The times I've listened to that voice – "Ask that extra question, dumbass" – I have a better feeling going back and writing that story. That punch in the gut is replaced with knowing I'm ready to sit down and tackle this bitch head on, that nothing will stop me.
One day, I want my name to be up there with the Chris Joneses, the Gary Smiths and the Tom Junods. And the cold-hard truth is, that voice – that feeling – is the saving grace that will help get me there.
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