cubicle.
“Your column’s at the copy desk,” she told me.
Renée didn’t send a story to the copy editors until she was finished with her edit, which was usually a grueling ordeal over several hours or even days.
“You don’t have any questions for me?” I asked, somewhat disbelieving. And rather proud of myself.
“I’m sure I could come up with some,” she said with a hint of menace. “However, Al said he has a query for you.”
“Captain Al!” Tony’s voice boomed. “Must be a whale of a tale.”
Al Macallister led the copy desk with the kind of detailed attention that helped earn The Paper its acclaimed reputation. He was also a monomaniac.
“It’s about your lede,” Al said when I called him.
Oh, God,
I thought.
Please don’t change my lede after all the hours I spent coming up with it.
Al read the opening sentence robotically, with no inflection in his nasal voice: “‘When it came to love, Mimi Martin thought she had missed the boat.’” He paused before citing my linguistic crime.
“
Which
boat?” he asked. “Which particular boat did Ms. Martin miss?”
There’s a thin line between editorial accuracy and anal-retentiveness.
“I wasn’t really referring to one particular boat,” I said,trying not to reveal my inner John McEnroe (“You cannot be serious!”).
“But you used the word ‘the,’ which, in fact, implies one specific boat,” he countered. “If you don’t have a specific boat in mind, you should change it to ‘
a
boat.’ Otherwise our readers are going to wonder what boat you’re referring to.”
The only thing our readers were going to wonder was what planet we were on.
“It’s supposed to be funny,” I said, feebly attempting to reason with him, but if you have to explain that something’s funny, it’s not. “It’s a colloquialism: ‘I missed the boat.’”
“You didn’t write that YOU missed a boat. You wrote that Miss Martin missed a boat,” Captain Al pointed out, always on the alert for a factual error.
“The point is, it’s a turn of phrase that doesn’t make sense with the word ‘a,’” I insisted.
“I don’t know,” he said.
What doesn’t he know?
I wondered.
How people talk in real life?
“I think it’s best to be accurate.”
I hung up the phone, grumbling, “Al is killing my lede.”
Renée’s head popped up again over her cubicle. “In 1968, Archie Donovan was the copy editor when I wrote a story about John Wayne’s Oscar win. My lede was, ‘Better late than never. John Wayne showed
True Grit
, winning an Academy Award for his one hundred and thirty-ninth film.’ Donovan, who believed there was no such thing as too few words, changed it to ‘John Wayne was
the late winner
of the Academy Award for his one hundred and thirty-ninth film.’ That’s how you literally kill a lede.” She let loose a raspy guffaw, then plopped back down into her chair. From behind the wall she said, “I’ll talk to Al.”
I was grateful for one fewer thing to worry about. Then an e-mail alert appeared on my screen. I had a new message, and it was from Melinda.
Chapter Seven
Dream Date
I was deliberating between roses and tulips at a Midtown deli before meeting Melinda for a late dinner. Roses made a strong statement. Possibly too strong. I was overthinking it. Or, more likely, I was overdoing it. It was just a first date. I wondered if I had been too eager on my first date with Jill. I had brought her a miniature box of Belgian truffles. Maybe that’s what had turned her off. I wished I could ask her. There should be exit interviews for dating. Just a brief evaluation of the highlights and challenges of the relationship, and maybe a few questions like “So what exactly was it that motivated you to dump me?”
I decided against the flowers. But picked up a package of breath mints. I wasn’t nervous. Or I wasn’t as nervous as I was when I received Melinda’s e-mail two days prior. I had stared at my computer monitor for
“Your column’s at the copy desk,” she told me.
Renée didn’t send a story to the copy editors until she was finished with her edit, which was usually a grueling ordeal over several hours or even days.
“You don’t have any questions for me?” I asked, somewhat disbelieving. And rather proud of myself.
“I’m sure I could come up with some,” she said with a hint of menace. “However, Al said he has a query for you.”
“Captain Al!” Tony’s voice boomed. “Must be a whale of a tale.”
Al Macallister led the copy desk with the kind of detailed attention that helped earn The Paper its acclaimed reputation. He was also a monomaniac.
“It’s about your lede,” Al said when I called him.
Oh, God,
I thought.
Please don’t change my lede after all the hours I spent coming up with it.
Al read the opening sentence robotically, with no inflection in his nasal voice: “‘When it came to love, Mimi Martin thought she had missed the boat.’” He paused before citing my linguistic crime.
“
Which
boat?” he asked. “Which particular boat did Ms. Martin miss?”
There’s a thin line between editorial accuracy and anal-retentiveness.
“I wasn’t really referring to one particular boat,” I said,trying not to reveal my inner John McEnroe (“You cannot be serious!”).
“But you used the word ‘the,’ which, in fact, implies one specific boat,” he countered. “If you don’t have a specific boat in mind, you should change it to ‘
a
boat.’ Otherwise our readers are going to wonder what boat you’re referring to.”
The only thing our readers were going to wonder was what planet we were on.
“It’s supposed to be funny,” I said, feebly attempting to reason with him, but if you have to explain that something’s funny, it’s not. “It’s a colloquialism: ‘I missed the boat.’”
“You didn’t write that YOU missed a boat. You wrote that Miss Martin missed a boat,” Captain Al pointed out, always on the alert for a factual error.
“The point is, it’s a turn of phrase that doesn’t make sense with the word ‘a,’” I insisted.
“I don’t know,” he said.
What doesn’t he know?
I wondered.
How people talk in real life?
“I think it’s best to be accurate.”
I hung up the phone, grumbling, “Al is killing my lede.”
Renée’s head popped up again over her cubicle. “In 1968, Archie Donovan was the copy editor when I wrote a story about John Wayne’s Oscar win. My lede was, ‘Better late than never. John Wayne showed
True Grit
, winning an Academy Award for his one hundred and thirty-ninth film.’ Donovan, who believed there was no such thing as too few words, changed it to ‘John Wayne was
the late winner
of the Academy Award for his one hundred and thirty-ninth film.’ That’s how you literally kill a lede.” She let loose a raspy guffaw, then plopped back down into her chair. From behind the wall she said, “I’ll talk to Al.”
I was grateful for one fewer thing to worry about. Then an e-mail alert appeared on my screen. I had a new message, and it was from Melinda.
Chapter Seven
Dream Date
I was deliberating between roses and tulips at a Midtown deli before meeting Melinda for a late dinner. Roses made a strong statement. Possibly too strong. I was overthinking it. Or, more likely, I was overdoing it. It was just a first date. I wondered if I had been too eager on my first date with Jill. I had brought her a miniature box of Belgian truffles. Maybe that’s what had turned her off. I wished I could ask her. There should be exit interviews for dating. Just a brief evaluation of the highlights and challenges of the relationship, and maybe a few questions like “So what exactly was it that motivated you to dump me?”
I decided against the flowers. But picked up a package of breath mints. I wasn’t nervous. Or I wasn’t as nervous as I was when I received Melinda’s e-mail two days prior. I had stared at my computer monitor for
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