How do you write an article, book, short story or poem that’s a pleasure to read? It’s a daunting challenge, and school is generally poor preparation for it. Teachers and professors have to slog through your research paper, but nobody else does. In real life it doesn’t matter how brilliant your ideas or insights are if you can’t make the case in words that hold a reader’s attention.
I learned this lesson the hard way in 1985, two years after I graduated from Middlebury College, when I walked into Burlington’s original alt-weekly, the Vermont Vanguard Press, and offered myself up as a dance critic. I had some expertise in the subject — I had studied ballet in my teens — but, before agreeing to give me a freelance assignment, the editor wanted to see some writing samples. I handed over a couple of papers from an English class.
Editor Josh Mamis, three years my senior, responded in writing — typing, actually, on an IBM Selectric — with a page of spontaneous heartfelt advice that I kept, framed and still have on display in my home office today. It gets right to the point: “OK. Forget everything you were ever told about writing. The samples you gave me showed me that you can put words together fine, and that the ideas certainly get translated into meaningful sentences. But it’s got that slow stilt of academia lurking between the lines.”
He goes on: “Brighten up. Snap it up by making the sentences short, by not particularly using words that you wouldn’t use in everyday conversation. Read the piece aloud. Anytime you stumble, rewrite. Keep the paragraphs short. Okay, now write me a dance piece.”
Josh gave me my first shot at journalism: He asked me to review Leslie Tucker’s one-woman show at a venue called the Border, above Nectar’s. Following his recommendation, I tried to be “as descriptive as hell,” in a way that would help the reader picture what I witnessed.
In his letter, Josh also warned me: “You may have to stay up all Tuesday night rewriting. Don’t be insulted if I ask you to work on it, and throw it out, and work on it again. And whatever you do, try to let the words come out as naturally as possible, don’t THINK too much. Just let it flow … thanks.”
Of course, I labored for hours writing the story, but in the end, it wasn’t half bad. I think I got $25 for my efforts — which worked out to be way less than the minimum wage at the time.
Fast-forward 40 years. Seven Days culture coeditors Carolyn Fox and Dan Bolles share the job Josh had at the Vanguard (before he left Vermont for bigger alts in the New Haven, Conn., area). Freelancers often approach them, wanting to write for the paper. To get the best results, what advice should they give? Carolyn wanted to know. She and I were talking about a potential new hire on the phone when I remembered Josh’s sepia-toned letter, took it off the wall and read it to her.
To my surprise, she loved it and asked me to bring it into the office. Next thing I knew, she and Dan had emailed “the JM letter,” as we’ve now dubbed it, to the entire culture staff.
“Goddamn, that is great advice. I want to hang this above my laptop,” consulting editor Chelsea Edgar replied. In a later email to me, Carolyn noted the timelessness of Josh’s instruction. Also: “I like that it’s unflinchingly straightforward — almost brusque — yet also kind. No-nonsense but encouraging. Inspiring!”
Thank you, “JM,” for giving me a chance and generously guiding me through it. I’m happy to be in a position to pass on your words of wisdom to the next generation of journalists, who are writing for readers facing a whole new world of distractions. Hopefully your advice will help them keep our audience informed, engaged — and, on occasion, delighted.
This article appears in The Reading Issue 2024.
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