There persists a somewhat stereotyped image of The Editor, bolstered by media archetypes Perry White (Superman) and Walter Burns (The Front Page): a cigar-chomping, coffee-swilling bully, bellowing commands to cringing reporters for rewrites. Roughneck Harold Ross seems nearly to approach that model, though if Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur were here they’d name a dozen of the exact type.
I’m afraid I must disappoint those expecting Hechtian bombast. I have never chomped a cigar in my life. Not only that, my orders always come out sounding more like suggestions. I haven’t quite got the knack of this “authority” business. I can’t convince anyone that my deadline is a real (if arbitrary) thing, like a personal Equator. It’s more like a monthly cliffhanger, as I face my printer’s deadline (which is not arbitrary) with a Syncopated layout: white spaces alternating with articles. The force of my personality is not sufficient. I have a feeling that if I called the fire department I’d be put on hold.
It is with considerable hesitation, therefore, that I approach the issue of style. Demanding that writers submit copy that looks a certain way (in consistency with the rest of the paper) is likely to scare off the reliable contributors who manage to get their work in on time. Vagaries of style, after all, are not mortal sins, and most are easily corrected. It’s just th
