Swooping

I remember two things about this class, in chronological order:

On the first day of class, as I was looking to my left as the stack of syllabi headed my way, I heard people seating themselves to my right. I took my syllabus, and as I swung the stack to my right, time slowed down, Matrix-style.  My senses registered a change in temperature (warmer) and a distinct fragrance (perfum-y, feminine). My reaction was to slow slightly, use both hands to pass my now precious delivery while turning and allowing my eyes to experience the source of the warm loveliness that my skin and nose had already been absorbing for all of .39 seconds.

I was rewarded. Slim hands grasped my package, a nice voice murmured thanks, and light eyes met mine for an eternity measured in single-digit nanoseconds. But for a 20 year old male human whose nose and skin are already on high alert, those 6 nanoseconds of locked eyes were enough for mutual visions of courtship, blossoming love and procreation.

And by “mutual,” I mean “ricocheting between my brain and groin at the speed of testosterone.”

“Good day,” I said, smiling, “and welcome to Mass Media and American Politics. I’m Steed.”

“Kristina,” she replied, “Kristin Hera. And this is my boyfriend, Biff.”

( poof )

That was the first thing I remember, and is ironically (you’ll see why), it is not germane to my thesis.

The second thing was the horror I felt as I finished my first paper. It might have been “Write an essay discussing the most influential incidents wherein mass media has impacted American politics in the last 50 years.” It was not this, probably, but something similarly broad. This was my kind of paper. I could touch on all the things I knew, wittily weaving together seemingly disparate thoughts in ways that, through most of high school and thus far in college, had served me well and hid the fact that – at least 50% of the time – I only barely knew what I was talking about. As I hit “Save,” I was feeling pretty good. Seven pages of dancing prose, solid intro and conclusion with 3 well-supported points in the middle. And it’s not even due till day after tomorrow. Win, win, win.

Cue the horror music as I looked over the assignment one last time.

“Essays longer than 500 words will not be graded and will receive no credit.”

“F-f-f-five HUNDRED? (runs quick word count) But my 7 pages is 1,784!!!” (500 words turns out to be almost exactly two double-spaced pages).

A quick review: the paper was due in two days, so there was time. I had plenty to say on the topic. All I had to do was something I’d never done before, really: Edit.

The process was daunting. Torturous.

I’d look at a paragraph and immediately see my favorite part – “ok, I can’t get rid of that funny/insightful/witty part. I’ll have to make the rest of the paragraph work around it.”

What I learned is that when I’m writing, I want to be entertaining. But when I’m reading, I want the words to be efficient. When I had to fit my entertaing prose into a bounded space, I realized that structuring my work to incorporate those extra thoughts and explorations meant that often, merit would be sacrificed rather than augmented.

Up until going through that process – writing, editing, thinking, editing some more –  I mistakenly made the assumption that I was communicating my main points so well that I could get away with the flourishes I sought to inject into the work to make it more fun to read.

The 500 word “bounding box” forced me to go critical, and I then saw it as a game: “is there one word that could replace those seven?” Amazingly, English is pretty accommodating.

The final paper weighed in at 499 words, and fit on two double-spaced pages. I was still nervous about it, and said as much to Kristin when they were due. She replied “Really? I thought it was fine. But … I’m a Journalism major, so I’m used to writing succinctly.”

Ouch.

The day we were to get our papers back, Professor Medler left a few minutes early, assigning the task to his teaching assistant. I don’t remember his name, but my mental picture (20 years later) has him as a young Don Johnson, but in Army fatigues instead of Miami pastel.

Anyway, young Don hauled his Army duffel bag up to the desk, saying “We were very surprised with your work, and not in a good way. Limiting the length of the papers was an intentional push to get you to be more concise. And with one exception, we were disappointed.” Kristin sat up straight and got ready to receive accolades. She’s a Journalism major. There were more words from the front of the room, but I was not hearing them as I braced for my disappointing paper to be returned.

Then he handed it back. 36. 36 percent? No, no – there it was right there: 36/40. But didn’t young Don say that there was only one person in the class who scored well, and that they got a 36?

My elation was even greater than the indignity that burst from Kristin’s space as she received her paper (a 32/40. Respectable, perhaps, but no 36.)

Moral of story: Journalism student or not, the more you think about your words, the better they’ll be.

And yes, I am aware that this here essay is not a great example of a tidy bit of writing, but it’s helping me get engaged in writing. The way things are going, I’m happy with 32/40.