Bringing far-flung freelancers together

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(This post first appeared in The Independent Journalist, a blog for freelancers by the Society of Professional Journalists.)

As the market for freelance journalism grows, so too has interest in the evolving tools for that job.

That interest is acute where collaborative journalism is concerned, because simply pitching PDFs of Word documents back and forth via email tends to be a clunky way of doing business in this demanding age of digital interactivity. Now, no matter the distance or purpose, teams of people with shared goals all want to work together as if sitting in the same room.

A relatively new website called Widbook tries to provide that goal-oriented environment and foster a social network to supplement it. Widbook is a writing and editing space that lets people alone or in groups craft book-length projects and shorter stories; insert resources such as photos, videos and animations; and add to or augment contributions by other writers.

Widbook also invites writers and readers to share and tweak favorite developing works, and create libraries of published works whether self-written or from other authors.

Early reports on Widbook, still in beta, call it a “YouTube for books” because of its heavy emphasis on interactivity. The central theme and interface are better suited for collaboration on projects. Writers who prefer to work alone can use Widbook as well, but they’ll miss out on many of its features.

And Widbook is free of charge to register for and use — surely the most attractive feature to freelance writers and hopeful novelists working with meager budgets. The only things that first-time visitors to Widbook need to get started is to create a user name and password. Options include creating a personal profile, linking with Facebook, and selecting favorite literary genres from which to build a library. Members also can send messages and “follow” one another through the site.

Because it’s in beta, Widbook has limitations and quirks. For one thing, it’s not possible to export a finished project to another platform, though that’s expected to come later as the site matures, and it’s not obvious to early users how the social media aspect will supplement the collaboration tools. The interface is also a tad balky with projects running longer than a few chapters.

Still, for collaborative writers and editors, Widbook presents an intriguing new way for collaborative journalists to exchange ideas and bring far-flung talent together in the same room.

A bottom-line tragedy

I lost six friends yesterday. A disaster eliminated them.

Not a natural disaster, mind you, but the kind caused by an accountant’s keystrokes.

Sadder still, someone who didn’t know these people, and maybe didn’t even care to know them, will profit from those keystrokes in the short run.

Yesterday, six news staffers at my workplace — five editors and a photographer — were expunged from the payroll of Lee Enterprises’s largest property and St. Louis’s principal news source. Out the door with these six and the few belongings they had also went about 50 years’ worth of institutional memory and irreplaceable expertise, to say nothing of the collegiality and professionalism they brought to work every day.

They were expunged about a month after Lee Enterprises deferred paying into pension plans for 2011 while handing the CEO and CFO performance bonuses totaling at least $1 million, and about two weeks after the company tamped down rumors that layoffs were pending. 

Discussion abounds over whether these matters led directly to what happened Tuesday. At the least, the timing is atrocious. Regardless, the events have combined to frighten those employees remaining. The ax has fallen close enough, repeatedly now over the past few years, for the remainder to feel a breeze from it. 

Among the people still filling chairs Tuesday, the mood was quiet, somber. Funereal maybe fits better. But nobody slaked their duties or relented during the inevitable march toward deadline. Our readers still needed their news Wednesday morning, no matter who was left to gather and present it.

And journalists — the really good ones I’ve known, anyway; certainly, the six who were shown the door Tuesday — tend not to soften while the world around them hardens. Public service comes first; that’s what being a journalist is all about. It’s a difficult, demanding profession that satisfies maybe one out of every two customers, and leaves the one customer often miffed. This is a hazard of striving to serve everyone equally, without fear or favor.

Because they routinely and willingly face that hazard, journalists also tend to be resilient. I have little doubt that the six former colleagues of mine will find new courses in life, ones that may afford them more prosperity and happiness. The thing is, nobody I know in journalism — and I’ve had ink-stained fingers almost 30 years now — pursued it for money or fame; so many other professions better satisfy those needs. They instead felt called to it, drawn to it, as if journalism sated them in some deep-seated way far more than just a career could.

More keep coming, fortunately, as the fine, aspiring journalists I have worked with at local universities attest. I wonder now, however, how many of these motivated, energetic students will be able to look back through 30 years of news gathering and public service, or even 30 months, when the institutions that were designed to support them in their pursuit crumble before anyone just jumping aboard gains adequate footing.

Yes, I realize journalism must adapt with the times and technology. I’ve heard the sermons, both weak and strong, and believe me when I say I’m among the converted. Perhaps we are indeed entering a “golden age” of journalism, with mobile technology and widespread electronic information access, that the static institutions associated with “mainstream” media had to be moved or removed to reach.

Still, something worsens when a medium plunders itself, and the newspaper subscriber from Florissant, Mo., who rang me up at work one evening a few weeks ago illustrated it. She called a random newspaper department number, she said, hoping to bypass the general voicemail that intercepts and, yes, discourages many outside callers, and got me on the line to complain about an article in print that glared with a grammatical error.

The error was in a part of the newspaper unrelated to mine. Nevertheless, now that she had me on the phone, she wanted to vent to somebody — anybody.

“This is shameful,” she said. “This is awful. How can you sleep knowing you put out a product like this? And you know, it just keeps getting worse.”

I assured her that, no, sometimes I don’t sleep.

“Ma’am,” I said. “I agree, it shouldn’t have happened, and I apologize. It certainly wasn’t the result of laziness or anything like that.”

“What was it then?”

“Well, I’m not sure, but ...” and I whisked her through a summary of the layoffs and cutbacks going on at the newspaper, explaining that these were happening while content management had expanded to include Web, mobile and other platforms, and social media.

“Basically, we’re doing much more with fewer people,” I concluded.

There was a silence of a few seconds at the other end, followed by, “Oh. Well, now I understand. Nobody’s ever taken the time to explain it to me. Thank you.”

She hung up sounding apologetic, but I doubt my explanation will salve her for long. 

The six people who were laid off Tuesday were among the vanguard of a watch attending to details that this reader, and many others also concerned with accuracy, consider crucial. They understand that credibility lies not just in the act of journalism, but also in the pursuit of perfection while performing it. Yes, errors do occur; however, the overall goal of getting details down properly and precisely should not be minimized, even as journalism leaps off the page and into the “cloud” — even as executives sift for ways to cut costs en route to that cloud.

Implying to our readers and our newest journalists that precision is negligible serves neither constituency, and in the end won’t serve the bottom line, either.

The color of mercy

David rests after his fall on the Tucker Boulevard bridge in downtown St. Louis.

 

I met him when he was face down on the sidewalk. It was Sunday, around noon. His head was in his hands; a thin line of blood trailed over two of his fingers. Sweat glinted atop his balding head.

Beside him, a scuffed Pullman suitcase lay on its side. Tied to the handle was a portable radio. When I arrived, the radio’s tinny speakers were conveying the announcer’s warning about that afternoon’s unseasonable heat.

“Sir,” I called down to him. “You OK? You need help?”

He raised his head to look at me. Beneath his right eye was a fresh, leaking abrasion the size of a quarter. Another abrasion half that size and leaking as well was gouged into the space between his nose and lip. A third, less worrisome scrape was visible on the left side of his forehead at the hairline. David’s eyes were glazed and his face runny with perspiration.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said clearly. “I’m just resting a moment.” Then he put his head back down.

Where he lay was at the approach to one of two walkways running along either side of the Tucker Boulevard bridge, between Spruce Street and Choteau Avenue. The walkways are bracketed by an aluminum railing on one side and a low concrete wall on the other, the latter serving as barricade between pedestrians and vehicles. Each walkway is narrow enough that people going opposite directions must twist their torsos slightly to keep from brushing shoulders.

He was sprawled at one angle, the suitcase at another. There was no way to pass without stepping over him, yet the barrier was high enough that car traffic would not notice.

“Are you sure you’re OK?” I shouted. “You don’t look it.”

He raised his head. “No, no, I’m good, I’m good. I just gotta catch my breath a little here, thought I’d just lay a minute.”

“You sure this is the best place to do it?”

He looked around and over his shoulder. A long, sticky strand of blood and sweat clung like a spider’s web between his cheek and wrist.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said, after a few seconds sizing up his situation. “I’ll just try sitting up over here.”

He rolled over slowly and rose up onto his knees, then turned and plopped down into a sitting position with his back against the concrete divider. His outer garments consisted of a dirty yellow University of Missouri hoodie and faded brown pants tucked into the tops of lace-up boots, the toes of which were rubbed white from wear. He said later that under those clothes were three other layers. The forecast that Sunday called for clear skies and 90-degree temperatures.

Sitting atop the divider near David’s head was a 32-ounce soda cup and a folded jacket. He reached into a pocket of his hoodie and withdrew a blue rag. He began wiping his face. That’s when he told me his name: David.

“I was sitting there, resting,” David said, pointing to where the jacket was. “I had just taken my jacket off and I guess I just went out and fell over.”

After two vigorous passes with the rag, he stopped at looked up at me.

“Do I have something on my face? Under my eye here?”

“Yes,” I said. “Looks like you scraped it when you went down.”

He wiped the spot again and looked at the rag. “Anyplace else?”

“Yes. Under your nose.”

He wiped, looked and nodded.

“Yeah, I feel it. I feel something, anyway. But it doesn’t look like it’s bleeding much.”

Near my feet was the hand-sized puddle of sweat and blood he had just come up out of.

“It could be worse,” David went on. “I guess I fell and hit that railing there and went down. Don’t remember it, though. Just remember taking my coat off and sitting there a moment, then I woke up and I was on the ground.”

“Do you feel like you’re hurt anywhere else?”

“Nah, this is it,” he said, wiping his face again.

“Still, I’m going to call for some help,” I said.

The nice weather had lured me out for a walk. I was four blocks from home, having come up the opposite end of the Tucker Boulevard bridge. Along the way, four people passed me — three men and a woman — all smiling, all giving cheerful greetings as they went by. When I reached David, blocking the sidewalk as he was, it became clear these smiling, cheerful people had stepped over him, ignored him.

As David sat, I dialed 9-1-1. The dispatcher picked up after one ring. She asked where I was and the condition of the injured man and I told her — about a block and a half from the main headquarters of the St. Louis Metropolitan Police Department and a firehouse. I figured help was maybe five minutes away.

Then the dispatcher asked what I considered an unusual question.

“Is the person white or African American?”

“African American,” I answered.

There was a pause, then. “OK, we’ll get someone there right away.”

When I hung up, David had reached for the soda cup and started drinking from it. He took small sips, then stared off through the bridge railing.

“This is my problem here,” he said. “I shoulda gotten water, not this stuff. I know better, too.”

Streams of cars rushed by as the lights at Spruce and Choteau turned red to green and back again. David talked in a low voice, so hearing him over the traffic was difficult. But in the quiet between green lights, he volunteered a few things about himself.

David came from North St. Louis and began his working life, making machine parts across the river in Illinois, right after leaving school. He milled gears for decades, retiring three years ago and moving into an apartment off Ninth Street downtown.

Then, he said, he got bored. With no wife or family, his days amounted to just sitting around, and his faith assured him that was no way to live. He needed a challenge to stay active and alert. He was healthy, just past 60, and motivated.

“So, I gave it up,” he said.

“Gave what up?”

“The apartment,” he said. “I gave it up. Figured there was someone else who needed it. This,” and he pointed to the sidewalk, “livin’ on the streets, was something I always wanted to try, an experiment, so I figured I’d do it.”

That was two years ago. And how’s the “experiment” going?

“Ah, it’s not so bad,” he said, shrugging. “Could be worse. I’ve seen others worse off.”

Now, David lives out of the big suitcase. It’s filled with clothes, books, odds and ends he kept from the apartment, which he says he doesn’t want back. He bought the radio from a thrift shop a week earlier.

“Keeps me company,” he said.

Money dribbles in from retirement checks that go to a post office box downtown. He’s careful with his funds, rarely splurges, but this time decided to buy a soda from a gas station just down the street from where he fell.

“Shouldn’t a done that. I’m fasting, you know,” he said, and drained his cup. “Fast every week from Friday to Sunday. Better to just have water. Saw this and, well ... you know.”

David was feeling faint before reaching the Tucker Boulevard bridge. He was en route to St. Vincent DePaul Parish, where they serve meals to the homeless. He breaks his fast each Sunday there, tries to be in line when the doors open at 10 a.m. so it’s easier to get a seat.

Now he’s worried. He takes pride in his health and said he had never fainted before, four layers of clothes or no. I asked why so many layers on such a hot day.

“You stay clean that way. Can’t get a bath all the time, but you gotta stay clean to stay healthy,” he explained. “The more you wear, the more it protects you. I don’t always know where I’m going to be sleeping.”

I nodded and looked at the clock on my phone. Fifteen minutes had passed since I called 9-1-1. I called again. I tweeted again.

“Look, we’re busy,” a different dispatcher explained. “We’ll get there as soon as we can.”

I hung up, looked at David and shrugged. “They say they they’re busy.”

“Well, I ain’t going anywhere. I need to rest.” He settled in against the barrier and turned his head to stare up the slope of the bridge. It’s a long incline, and he was still several blocks away from St. Vincent. “I shoulda broke down and got some breakfast this morning.”

And I should have walked over to the firehouse long before this. We talked a few minutes more, as I wanted to see David improving, and he appeared to be. Finally, I told him, “Look, I’m not waiting any more. You sit right here and I’m going to go down to the station.”

He waved a hand in acknowledgement as I jogged off.

Engine House No. 2 houses a pumper and a paramedic unit. When I arrived at the entrance and peeked through the window, both were gone. I headed over toward another door, behind which I heard what sounded like a television, and was about to knock when, as if on cue, the station’s paramedic truck turned a corner and pulled up behind me. One of the paramedics got out to stop traffic while the driver guide the truck back into the garage. I went over to tell her about David and pointed to where he was.

“Did you get a 9-1-1 call about this?” I asked.

“No, didn’t hear about it,” she said.

But after I alerted her, she whistled to the driver, climbed back aboard the truck and it veered off in David’s direction. I jogged part way back up the block in time to see the truck turned around and parked by David, who now was on his knees looking over the concrete barrier. He saw me and waved. I waved back as the paramedics disembarked.

Then I continued on my walk, turning over in my head all that happened over the past 34 minutes.

Where I live near downtown St. Louis, the disenfranchised are neighbors. Homeless and home owners attend the same churches and shop the same stores, as they have for years. The numbers in either group have risen and fallen with the economy, but the groups themselves are constants. Lately, it seems there are just as many whites as blacks occupying either of them.

There also are businesses and services among us, big and small, suffering scars from the slings and arrows of our outrageous economy. Jobs have disappeared, services have been cut, and uncertainty has increased. The home owners in my neighborhood, I am sure, have looked at the homeless lately and worried if they might soon join them.

But I wonder now, for the first time, what the people providing services around here see. When I called 9-1-1 for David, the question of color came up without my provocation. And it was the only physical attribute specifically requested. Height, weight, physical build, type of injury — none of these apparently mattered.

As far as I’m concerned, skin tone shouldn’t either. Maybe David wasn’t as frustrated by waiting as I was because he knew already that it did.

 

You just don't get it, do you?

Journalism is defined by its institutions. And journalists, whether they like it or not, are defined by them, too.

The public sees newspapers such as the New York Times as faceless, ink-stained atomatons decorated with florid fonts but lacking personality until a reporter or photographer or editor steps out of one, and then that person becomes “The Institution.”

Which is why most journalists — the credible ones, anyway — take pains to separate their selves from their institutions on personal matters. Because journalists by themselves gather and disseminate information, intent on doing those things without fear or favor. The institutions, on the other hand, may have an agenda, at the least a bottom line.

This came to mind after seeing a piece in GOOD full of chagrin over people’s particular Twitter habits. GOOD, an online reporting platform self-described as “pushing the world forward,” had a writer insisting twitterers stop including in their biographical detail the words “retweets are not endorsements,” on the grounds it was ridiculous and unnecessary. 

“It’s become downright tedious to click through someone’s Twitter profile and read, ‘Retweets are not endorsements,’” wrote Cord Jefferson, who has the title “senior editor” listed under his name at GOOD. “If it were just one or two people with the warning, or if Twitter were some kind of newfangled technology, it might make sense.

“Rather than eroding the comity of Twitter by assuming that others are too ignorant to understand what is at this point a very foundational rule of the network,” he writes later in his conclusion, “let’s assume people are smarter than that. And in the event that someone doesn’t understand, let’s agree to explain to that person, without codifying it in our bios, that here on Twitter, retweets aren’t endorsements.”

Yes, that would be a lovely world to live in, wouldn’t it? Email to me the address and I’ll book a trip.

But here on Earth, despite our best efforts, not every human reads exactly what writers intended. Journalists, though always struggling to highlight context in their reporting, realize one thing: Context, unfortunately, is often in the eye of the beholder.

This was clear long before the Internet was born. The responsible journalist is a champion of proper context in their stories — every worthy writer should be. I’m surprised that Jefferson, in his capacity, thinks that’s unnecessary. People read unintended things into words and phrases, and they always will. My job in journalism for decades was to write clearly and concisely to minimize misunderstanding, because I knew eradicating it was impossible.

For example, even with “RTs aren’t endorsements” on my own Twitter bio, which also states clearly my journalistic affiliations, hangers-on to the Occupy St. Louis exchange on Twitter last fall accused me of kowtowing to, or endorsing the actions of, both the protesters and the police while retweeting accounts from various news sources about a protest. In their rancor, the factions also demanded a subscription boycott of my newspaper, assured that my retweets were evidence of a larger media conspiracy favoring one side or the other. Regardless, the aggrieved were convinced of their veracity and, I gathered from the spam bombs they hurled at me, unwilling to entertain other options.

Furthermore, Jefferson transposes his ideal of Twitter with the reality of it. Imagine stepping into a room where hundreds of people are talking at once — some to one or two other people, some to themselves. Occasionally, one person shouts and the conversations in a portion of the room are diverted, but those resume soon enough. More people enter the room; some leave. But nobody has full grasp of every conversation going on. A lack of intelligence and awareness isn’t to blame; the collective noise was too distracting.

That describes Twitter. The network’s “foundational rules” as Jefferson labels them apply only to civility; they are not in place to guide civic awareness and understanding. And in any wide-open, far-reaching conversation bookended by distractions, part of what we say is bound to be misconstrued.

But probably the one niggling detail of Jefferson’s plea that I found most disconcerting was the phrase “downright tedious to click through” regarding his having to read “retweets aren’t endorsements.”

Tedious, eh? Three words? Is he so time-challenged now that reading three words eats huge gobs of his day? Never mind that Jefferson didn’t have to actually “click through” them — I mean, who clicks on each word they read? A three-word disclaimer does not take longer to digest than a sandwich. Or, “Moby Dick.” Or, thinking through an argument before giving voice to it. In a world where context is king, and social media lacks so much of it, every little bit — even three words — toward understanding is a huge help.

Oh, and by the way. Just because I mentioned GOOD and Cord Jefferson here doesn’t mean I endorse them.

 

Is there such a thing as 'idea theft'?

(This first appeared in The Independent Journalist, the freelancing blog by the Society of Professional Journalists.)

Picture yourself in this situation, if you haven’t already: You’ve pitched a story idea to a newspaper, magazine or online editor, received a nod of acknowledgement either in person or by correspondence and words of praise but not commitment, was thanked for your input and then left with the impression the editor would get back to you for follow-up. Days, weeks, maybe months pass without that follow-up.

Then, forewarning aside, the same story idea turns up, in almost the identical context as your pitch, in the editor’s publication.

The first natural thought is, “That (insert your favorite insult here) stole my idea!” A grand display of teeth-gnashing, fist-clenching and floor-pacing follows, and soon after arises the notion to give that editor a piece of your mind.

But before you do, consider two things. First, if you intend to give someone a piece of your mind, remember to leave enough for yourself. And second, the likelihood that the editor “stole” your idea is indefensible and improbable.

The truth is, nobody “owns” a story idea. Those thoughts swirling around in our heads afford no collateral by themselves. We like to think they do because of the inspiration they give us and the biased belief that nobody else had them. But unless an idea is written down, it doesn’t technically exist. And even then, it must be copyrighted before the owner can pursue and expect compensation for theft.

When an “original” story idea winds up flowing from someone else’s pen or keyboard, a few factors probably came into play:

It wasn’t original — Across decades and thousands of publications, assorted story themes have been hashed and rehashed, with tweaks made here and color added there as freshener. Arguably, the idea you’re pitching took root the same way it did for another writer, and another writer before that. Inspiration takes many forms, one being the unanticipated reflection of another person’s inspiration.

Bad timing — Chances are, too, the publication had an idea much like yours on its calendar. Publications of all sorts stockpile ideas and schedule them well in advance to keep their production on track; your idea might have been on the docket or in process long before it became “your” idea.

Editor’s prerogative — Part of what editors do daily is determine the optimum bang for a publication’s buck, and that includes finding the best writers and reporters for particular story ideas. Experience, talent, resourcefulness, enterprise — these all factor highly when editors assign a story to one person instead of another. Bear in mind though, this does not imply greater general competence; rather, it points to specific competencies certain stories need to shine.

Lack of expertise — Along that line, for freelancers, this suggests they develop and hone special skills and have a “niche” they can call their own. An editor shopping a story idea on mutual funds or needlepoint, or seeking and editor who can easily clarify either story, will choose talent they know has better-than-average knowledge of those topics before tossing it up to the crowd. When making a pitch, prove not only the story idea’s value but yours as well.

Of course, not every editor or publication possesses sterling intent and unassailable character. Because ideas lack easy protection, it’s possible for editors to plumb for ideas after their dependable reserves of material dry up, or their motives are unmasked, but this is bound to bring them detrimental long-term results. The various publishing industries, whether print or electronic, are close-knit environments made tighter through the nation’s economic tumult over the past four years. That and the rise of social media have forged both direct and relational connections between writers and editors that were once unimaginable.

So basically, editors who lift others’ ideas too often risk their reputations and their jobs, an unwise tactic to take in a shrinking marketplace.

But to be sure, writers can employ tactics of their own against the concept of “idea theft”:

Research — Look into a publication’s background regarding freelance work. Learn the publication’s policies and practices, and try talking with other freelancers to see how they were treated. Above all, read through as many back issues as you can find, to see what ideas have been done and how they were presented.

Confidentiality — Ask editors to keep ideas confidential and extend the courtesy of a reply once they know whether to go with the story. No editor is obligated to do this, but it doesn’t hurt to ask. And if the pitch is submitted in print, clarify the confidentiality concern with a line or two making the same request. Furthermore, keep story sources out of written proposals where possible, if for no other reason than to protect their confidentiality as well.

Contact — Stay in touch with editors, but don’t hound them. A call, email or note after a couple of weeks to remind them you’re eager to get to work is OK. Maybe mention, too, that other editors have expressed interest in the story, but say this only in honesty. Don’t make allegations or claims that editors can verify but you can’t.

Patience — Most editors, no matter the publication, are swamped with offers and ideas amid their other work. Weeks may pass before they’re able to give a response. So, scrutinize the calendar and plan to give pitches well ahead of the events they address. Harried editors will appreciate it.

Getting more credit than it deserves

Thanks, Pulitzer. Thanks a whole bunch. Now, I’m seriously worried.

Not the nail-chewing, hand-wringing, garment-rending kind of worry, but the one emblematic of watching a lit match burn too close to my fingers. Because I believe that soon, something seriously bad is going to happen.

And it’s all because you bestowed the award for national reporting on The Huffington Post, America’s aggregator-general and chronic cut-and-paste punchline.

On Monday, the Pulitzer committee honored military correspondent David Wood’s 10-part series on the long-term affects of war on our wounded soldiers and their families. The heart-wrenching “Beyond the Battlefield” series comprised eight months of research and interviews of military men and women who, Wood said, “wanted to tell their story because they view their wounds as medals of honor, symbols of their sacrifice.”

The series and its award have lifted the 7-year-old Huffington Post into the pantheon of “serious” news publications, mostly print-based, that have for years looked down on their online brethren as ugly stepchildren — “HuffPost” in particular. That’s because since going live in 2005, the site has garnered more attention for what it didn’t do journalistically than what it did.

HuffPost has been called a safe harbor for pseudoscience apologists, a slap-dash content mill unaccustomed to crediting original source work, and a salary-free sweatshop offering false promises of credibility to aspiring bloggers seeking national attention.

Even its founder Arianna Huffington, perhaps the most powerful woman online today, has been hit with plagiarism charges regarding two books she wrote in the 1980s, with one claim settled out of court and the other not prosecuted.

Assorted running jokes imply that HuffPost is where journalists go to see how their stories were rewritten, and where business editors go to read the Wall Street Journal without paying for it. A gag on “Saturday Night Live” featuring an Arianna Huffington lookalike has her claiming HuffPost copied content directly from The New York Times on coverage of Prop 8, with knowing laughter instead of shock or dismay following the punchline.

And this is why I’m worried — not that HuffPost is too much of a punchline to warrant Pulitzer’s attention, but that the prize ascribes more credibility to HuffPost than it deserves.

Though the award went to one reporter and one story series, the fact that Pulitzer’s prizes have such distinguished reputations brings everyone involved to share in the honor. This is why, at nearly every publication that has won a prize, the award is displayed prominently as representative of the entire publication, not just one or more diligent reporters.

We see it elsewhere, too. When the Super Bowl trophy is handed out at the end of the big game, every player gets the chance to touch it, kiss it, hold it. One player may be the MVP, but winning the Lombardi Trophy is a team effort, so everyone shares a stake in the reward. So it goes at Pulitzer-winning publications.

The award also instills tacit vindication for the way newspapers go about their business. Not only the result, but also the process is cherished, and thus  journalism conferences often feature Pulitzer winners giving presentations on “How I did it,” or “How I won it,” or “What we did to get it.” These presentations are almost always the best-attended at these conferences.

But the impact goes deeper. The Pulitzer also is taken by winning publications as tangential proof that the psychology inside the operation is award-winning as well — that the way a publication conducts its internal affairs sets the table for Pulitzer’s praise. Thus, prize-winning operations see the Pulitzer as not just a reward for individual work well done, but also for the operational state of mind behind that work.

And thus, Arianna Huffington can now promote her company’s Pulitzer win as justification for all the questionable behavior either known to be going on or alleged to be going on inside her shop. After all, she’s bound to say with that award held up for all to see, isn’t this what it’s all about?

I’d like to think that hunk of metal has more significance. I’d like to think the ultimate symbol of responsible, ethical journalism is intangible, understated, yet prominent enough in the minds of American citizens that they choose to turn their attention to it every day, whether in paper or digital form.

A good, solid reputation in journalism is not something acquired from routinely borrowing or reinventing other’s work without giving due credit. With the attention of the journalism community squarely on her, Arianna Huffington has the chance now to change her publication’s ways and drive that point home. The alternative is for HuffPost to continue doing as it always has: serve as a punchline that gives serious journalism a black eye.

 

Further tips on self-editing

Ignorance is one of those things that doesn’t improve with practice. Yet a lot of writers in all corners of the craft insist their prime obligation is committing ideas to words, and whether it’s the right word is not always their concern.

“The first draft, I’m just trying to get everything down,” a book author told me. “After that, I leave it up to my editor most times to clean it up.”

This approach is fine for getting ideas down as fast as they come to mind; in fact, I endorse it. Lately though, I’ve seen more blogs, short stories, novels and non-fiction works come out in final form that suggest the commitment to clean-up was abbreviated or lacking altogether. What these shoddy pieces portend is embarrassment for the author, the publisher, and potentially the readers who expected professional work in the first place.

Blame this boom in boo-boos on the ease of electronic publishing, which has reduced the gap between writing and marketing to a barely perceptible slit and goads us into stream-of-consciousness creativity. We are all just a keystroke away from fame and fortune, we’d like to think. Thus, we’re inclined to rush the process.

In a previous post I broached a few basic tips for freelancers to improve their editing. Here, I offer more to consider, such as:

Creating a “mission statement” — Have reason and focus when writing. Don’t hang the hope that “something will come to me” on protracted banging of the keyboard. A goal can guide thinking, and clear thinking guides creativity. Establish goals at the beginning so that your purpose is obvious at the end.

Thinking about brevity when writing briefly — Writing space always is at a premium, even online. So, too, is the readers’ attention. Research has shown that readers flip through Web pages faster than printed ones, which means writers have less time than ever to make a good impression. Short, punchy words tend to help in this regard. Long words can trip up readers and force them to stumble through one’s prose, if they bother staying around long enough to finish.

Using active verbs — And speaking of brevity, active verbs take up less space than passive ones, because the passive ones are bigger and heavier and need modifiers to carry them along. Active verbs can stand alone and bear their own weight. Sure, passive verbs have a place in English — wherever slow, ponderous writing is a premium.

Avoiding redundancies — There’s really no reason to say the same thing more than once in writing. Let me repeat: There’s really no reason to say the same thing more than once. Unless you’re doing it for effect.

Trimming fat — Closely related to redundancy is excess verbiage — usually, the adjectives, adverbs and prepositions that pad our speech. Though it seems when first written that they help drive home a particular point, they in fact delay gratification or they overstate an idea. Use adjectives sparingly, limit adverbs to those times when it’s absolutely necessary to alter the verb’s definition, and make sure prepositions are always in their place, which is very close to, if not next to, the object they’re supposed to modify.

Doing the math — Just about all the journalists I know drifted into writing as a career in part because they were poor mathematicians, or had a natural aversion to numbers. Words were their passion. The thing is, good reporting often relies on making sure things add up the way they should, whether the scale of measure is math or logic. Take time to check the math. Or get someone else who’s good with numbers to do it for you.

Paying attention to personal quirks — This speaks broadly to everything said above. Our shortcomings are characteristic of our personalities. Detail-oriented people may miss seeing the big picture, while big-picture people may gloss over subtle distinctions. Still others have trouble in general with spelling or grammar or word usage. Subdue your ego long enough to gain perspective of personal writing or reporting flaws, even if it means asking other people about them, because those flaws could be the first things readers see in your writing.

Pacing yourself — Speed is essential in typing tests but not thoughtful writing. Sure, deadlines constrain our penchant for doing things in free-form ways, but taking care to prepare for a writing or editing project can eliminate scheduling and organizational obstacles that slow us down. With careful preparation comes time to think clearly and carefully about what we’re writing, and given adequate time we can pace our production. 

Editing more than once — In my line of work, however, speed counts. Newspapers never are casual places, and the closer to deadline my colleagues and I get the more prone we are to hurrying through our edits to news copy. This is not acceptable behavior, mind you, just one of the vagaries of deadline journalism. Freelancers, on the other hand, have rather more control over their schedules, and fortunately, more control over the editing process. They should understand that one re-read does not constitute a good edit; two, three, even four re-reads is much better. Because our minds slip into comfort zones as our bodies do, we’ll easily read past some errors while we’re keyed in to finding others.

If it helps, edit a piece at least three times taking three approaches: first, editing for story structure and clarity; second, for spelling; and third, for grammar. Dividing your focus on purpose improves the chances you’ll catch more errors and heighten your credibility.