‘Write tight and make it sing,’ Clay said. Just don’t cry

Some of Clay Thompson’s former colleagues are writing about their memories of him.

Republic columnist Karina Bland was one of Clay’s reporters early in her career at the Phoenix Gazette.

I learned a lot of things from Clay Thompson. Writing short was not one of them.

He tried. Clay Thompson was my editor in my early years at the paper. He chided me to “Write tight, and make it sing.” I wouldn’t, and he would cut it — and make it sing.

Simple sentences were best.

A good lede would pull Clay out of his chair and across the newsroom to tell you. I loved to see him heading my way.

If I wanted to write, I should read. Mark Twain. Kurt Vonnegut. James Thurber. Their short stories.

He sent me to cover the Super Bowl in Miami with a different kind of book: “The NFL Beginner’s Guide to Football.” Chapter 1: The ball. Chapter 2: The field.

I would follow Clay to the smoking area in the basement by the printing presses, and he would tell me how everyone had a story to tell — if you would listen. Really listen.

Clay would talk to anyone — city officials, cops, the mailman, our waitress and the homeless guy on the corner.

He saw stories that other people would miss. Gov. Rose Mofford’s up-do. Weiner-dog races.

I learned to see them, too. A stolen wheelchair. A small town with an outrageous teen-pregnancy rate.

Clay would tell me, “Make me cry, kid, and I’ll put it on the front page.”

“I didn’t say that,” Clay claimed recently when I went to visit him. Yes, he did. A lot.

Which was funny because Clay also told me there’s no crying in the newsroom. Just like there’s no crying in baseball. “No-no-no crying,” he would say in a bit of a panic if I teared up for any reason. You just got on with it.

So I won’t cry now. I’ll write about what Clay taught me and how much he meant to me.

I’ll keep it short.