AN ODE TO EDITORS
Steve Braunias on writing for the first readers
Keri was my editor at Radio 2XS in Palmerston North. She came in like a breath of cold air, very bracing, with all sorts of wise sayings and firm instructions about how to report. She typed them out on little rectangular pieces of paper. “Lead local,” one page read, with the stunning sequel, “and if you can’t lead local, localise the lead.” This was a challenge during our reporting of the Falklands War but it was amazing the ways you could work in a reference to the Manawatu. I respected Keri. She taught me how to write complex news stories in three sentences, each sentence typed on a little rectangular page.
Frank was my editor at the Greymouth EveningStar . He wore moccasins and cardigans, and his moustache, too, was a soft coating of fur. He was a quiet man with a gentle manner; even the ties he wore to work every day were discreet, soothing. I admired Frank. He insisted on calling the newsroom something that thrilled me to the core: it was, he said, “the literary office”. I was 24 years old and I worked in a literary office in a town that smelled of coal and river water.
Gary was my editor at Countdown magazine. He had very set habits and went about the job in a tidy, meticulous fashion, which I secretly admired but did my best to disrupt. We wrote about pop music and
I would play The Cult, Guns N’ Roses and Kylie on the stereo at supersonic volumes. Battered, deafened, he would stagger in from his office like he was under attack. But I loved Gary and whenever I got in trouble — there was a terrible incident backstage at a Motley Crue concert in Sydney — he backed me up 100 per cent, even when I was 100 per cent in the wrong.
Finlay was my editor at the Listener. Working with your best friend is a thing of joy and for those four happy years it provided many opportunities to drink. But actually he ran the magazine as a serious and even noble enterprise; I was in awe at his commitment to maintain the Listener’s tradition of intellectual and creative integrity. He taught me that when a really good piece of writing comes across your desk, the best thing to do is to keep your mitts off it, and publish. Also he was very funny and I never laughed so much at work my life.
Cate was my editor at the Sunday Star-Times .Iwasatsuchalowebbinmy career that I had made a verbal agreement to accept a position at some dreadful tabloid but Cate got word of it, intervened, and summoned me to her office. She was posh, very pretty, and breathed: “I want you.” I signed that day. She taught me to be careful, to think twice. I always thought of her as the most decent person I ever worked for; she had values, morals, a sense of right and wrong — I’m sure this will really surprise everyone, but only a few people in journalism have a quality of goodness.
Emily was my editor at Sunday magazine. The second I met her I thought: “Woah.” I asked her out for drinks and now we share custody of our beautiful teenage daughter. All editors turn their publications into images of themselves, and she made the magazine constantly and effortlessly cool. I was deluded into thinking that my presence as a columnist meant I was cool, too; one of the things I miss most about her is her happy, mocking laughter.
Sarah was my editor at Canvas. She is leaving and this is the last issue I will write a column for her — and that’s the thing, an editor is the first person who reads what you write. I loved writing for Sarah. I wrote with the hope it would meet her standards of excellence. She was sweet, clever, shrewd, a model of good grace and patience, who always took the time to find something in my writing that she could compliment. Very many times she described these columns as “harrowing”. That’s what it felt like when I heard she was leaving. She was among the best of the best. I will miss her more than I can write.