The Desk
For some years I worked for a small-town weekly newspaper. The paper may not have
been as important as the New York Times, but my desk was magnificent. You think the one in the
oval office is nice? You should have seen mine. Never in my life before or since have I had such
an important-looking desk and it was all MINE! MINE! MINE! Well, except that the paper I
worked for actually owned the desk and everything on it, but other than that it was mine.
Because I hate conflict, my job was to write about everything else. Headline: Quilters
Quilt Quilts! But just because I had the fluff beat, don’t get the idea that my job was easy.
Writing is hard work, especially when one has nothing to report. Let’s say that I had spent a few
hours interviewing a local artist. This would be fun. We’d talk briefly about his art, then digress
to his dog, his car, the local dentists, our opinions of the latest hit movie, and the one best way to
grill a steak. All fired up, I’d get back to the office, sit down at my lovely desk and belatedly
realize that I couldn’t use most of the interview. But deadlines don’t move, so I would
laboriously pull something like the following out of my aching brain:
Painting
By Anneli Byrd
John Smith is a painter. He paints pictures.
Exhausted from this effort, I’d send the story to the editor. But this wouldn’t be the end of
the road. My literary masterpieces often were sent back with critiques, in this case, “WRITE
MORE!” So wearily, I’d trudge back to the computer and make the following revision.
Painting
By Anneli Byrd
John Smith is a painter. He paints pictures. Of ducks.
This then went on to the proofreader who was paid to make annoying comments about sentence
fragments and so forth.
As you can see, writing is a rigorous process which requires an astonishing amount of
revision and precision. Even so, errors are inevitable for even the best writers, and sometimes the
public would get upset. But with my lovely desk, I was prepared. I imagined out exactly what
would happen the next time I offended someone.
Offended person marches in, “I have a complaint!”
“Yeeeesssss?” I’ll say calmly.
The person takes a chair across the vast expanse of my desk.
Offended person: “You printed that I like snorts!”
“Yeeeeeesss?”
“SPORTS! You idiot! I said I like SPORTS!”
“Yeeeeeeesss?”
Offended person beginning to feel overpowered by the desk would think, “Gosh, she must be
important. I wonder if she’s busy investigating a big story?” Then rallying, says aloud a bit more
politely,
“I think you should fix the error.”
“Of course,” I”ll say, still cool. “When did you take your last snort?”
Offended person, “2017. Wait a minute! I didn’t say that!”
“You deny the allegation?”
Offended person: What? No! I mean Yes! (My desk is exerting an aura of legal power) You
know, maybe we should just drop the whole thing.”
“Well,” I’ll say, “I don’t usually like to do that. But, since this week’s deadline is past, I guess I
can let it slide this one time.”
Offended person, now a relieved and grateful person: “Oh, thank you so much!”
We’ve since moved to a different state, so I’m not employed by that newspaper anymore.
Still, it’s not too late to write a book about my astonishing rise to the top of journalistic glory
(having been the, ahem, most important of the three person staff). I could call it, “From Taco’s to
Trivia: How I Climbed the Ladder of Success Without the Burden of Excess Pay.” It’s bound to
be a hit. Watch for it at your local bookstore. If you don’t mind visiting me at a forgettable desk,
I’ll be happy to autograph a copy for you.
been as important as the New York Times, but my desk was magnificent. You think the one in the
oval office is nice? You should have seen mine. Never in my life before or since have I had such
an important-looking desk and it was all MINE! MINE! MINE! Well, except that the paper I
worked for actually owned the desk and everything on it, but other than that it was mine.
Because I hate conflict, my job was to write about everything else. Headline: Quilters
Quilt Quilts! But just because I had the fluff beat, don’t get the idea that my job was easy.
Writing is hard work, especially when one has nothing to report. Let’s say that I had spent a few
hours interviewing a local artist. This would be fun. We’d talk briefly about his art, then digress
to his dog, his car, the local dentists, our opinions of the latest hit movie, and the one best way to
grill a steak. All fired up, I’d get back to the office, sit down at my lovely desk and belatedly
realize that I couldn’t use most of the interview. But deadlines don’t move, so I would
laboriously pull something like the following out of my aching brain:
Painting
By Anneli Byrd
John Smith is a painter. He paints pictures.
Exhausted from this effort, I’d send the story to the editor. But this wouldn’t be the end of
the road. My literary masterpieces often were sent back with critiques, in this case, “WRITE
MORE!” So wearily, I’d trudge back to the computer and make the following revision.
Painting
By Anneli Byrd
John Smith is a painter. He paints pictures. Of ducks.
This then went on to the proofreader who was paid to make annoying comments about sentence
fragments and so forth.
As you can see, writing is a rigorous process which requires an astonishing amount of
revision and precision. Even so, errors are inevitable for even the best writers, and sometimes the
public would get upset. But with my lovely desk, I was prepared. I imagined out exactly what
would happen the next time I offended someone.
Offended person marches in, “I have a complaint!”
“Yeeeesssss?” I’ll say calmly.
The person takes a chair across the vast expanse of my desk.
Offended person: “You printed that I like snorts!”
“Yeeeeeesss?”
“SPORTS! You idiot! I said I like SPORTS!”
“Yeeeeeeesss?”
Offended person beginning to feel overpowered by the desk would think, “Gosh, she must be
important. I wonder if she’s busy investigating a big story?” Then rallying, says aloud a bit more
politely,
“I think you should fix the error.”
“Of course,” I”ll say, still cool. “When did you take your last snort?”
Offended person, “2017. Wait a minute! I didn’t say that!”
“You deny the allegation?”
Offended person: What? No! I mean Yes! (My desk is exerting an aura of legal power) You
know, maybe we should just drop the whole thing.”
“Well,” I’ll say, “I don’t usually like to do that. But, since this week’s deadline is past, I guess I
can let it slide this one time.”
Offended person, now a relieved and grateful person: “Oh, thank you so much!”
We’ve since moved to a different state, so I’m not employed by that newspaper anymore.
Still, it’s not too late to write a book about my astonishing rise to the top of journalistic glory
(having been the, ahem, most important of the three person staff). I could call it, “From Taco’s to
Trivia: How I Climbed the Ladder of Success Without the Burden of Excess Pay.” It’s bound to
be a hit. Watch for it at your local bookstore. If you don’t mind visiting me at a forgettable desk,
I’ll be happy to autograph a copy for you.