Intensity of thought and concentration must engross the newspaper writer. He must prepare himself by study and practice to throw every atom of his mental vitality into the work, to write immediately and without expectation of revision exactly what should appear in the newspaper. Mind discipline is a powerful factor. The man must school himself to work under conditions of mental anguish, physical distress, heart sorrow or unhappiness of any sort. He cannot surrender to moods, whims, or to physical sensations. He must continue hour after hour, day after day, with the same hurry-up speed. As in crowded Broadway, if you cannot keep up with the procession you must be trodden on or take to a side street, so must the active newspaper man everlastingly keep going. It is largely a matter of mind discipline, of study and of practice, of intense mental concentration and of swiftness of thought.
Please do not undervalue the priceless benefits of practice—of practice that will give skill in saying exactly what you want to say the first time you say it. In leisurely writing you may rewrite and change and make perfect, but in newspaper writing you have one dash only at it without much opportunity for change or revision. Your reputation as a newspaper writer hangs on that one attempt. You can cultivate the gift of ready speech in writing just as many a finished orator has cultivated it in speaking.
It is said of President Woodrow Wilson that early in his youth he appreciated the advantages of ready speech and set about to improve himself in its use. He practiced speaking long and constantly. In the seclusion of his room he conducted imaginary debates, talking to himself on first one side and then the other of some public question. On his walks, while a student, he addressed the crags and peaks, the winding rivers, the peaceful meadows—all for practice in the quick use of language, the shading of sentences and the putting of emphasis on climaxes of thought and conclusion. And he became one of the most interesting and convincing and scholarly public speakers this country, or any other country for that matter, has ever known.
The young writer should seek to rise above the commonplace. It was said of Machiavelli that “having adopted some of the maxims then generally received he arranged them more luminously and expressed them more forcibly than any other writer.” The young writer should cultivate the art of making his words and sentences exude the very spirit of the occasion—the art of describing joyous events with joyous words and of shadowing melancholy happenings in the language of gloom. He should seek the faculty of “making obscure truth pleasing, of making repulsive truth attractive.” Let him follow the counsel of a distinguished critic who says:
Choose concrete nouns rather than vague, abstract woolly ones.
Use straightforward speech rather than circumlocution.
Remember that the first virtue, the touchstone of masculine style is the use of the active verb and concrete noun. When you write in the active voice, “They gave him a silver teapot” you write as a man. When you write, “He was made the recipient of a silver teapot” you write jargon.
Avoid overworked words is common advice to young journalists. An article in the Writer has much to say of ways by which the constant use of the word “said” may be prevented. “Said” sometimes becomes monotonous, especially in the dialogue of fiction; but almost always another verb may be found to express the author’s meaning. The Writer printed a list of three hundred and eighty-two verbs, found in about fifty magazine stories, which had been used instead of “said.” Frequently the use of a verb helps to make more concise as well as to avoid the word “said.” “‘It hurts,’ said John, in a complaining tone,” is not so good as “‘It hurts,’ John complained.” Again, “‘Please help me,’ said the beggar in pitiful beseeching appeal,” is better expressed by “‘Please help me,’ the beggar pleaded.” The language is rich in verbs.
Another greatly overworked word, and a slow word as well, is the word “show.” It does seem as though the average newspaper writer cannot think of any other word when he writes that “this action”—or “this event”—or “this conclusion”—or “this computation shows that”—etc., when he might say, attests, evinces, betokens, bespeaks, implies, indicates, proves—or any other suitable verb of the twenty-five or more he may find in a thesaurus.
Constant looseness of speech is found in the use of explanatory phrases that might be expressed by a single verb. The verb is the heart of language life, the soul of expression. Why, for instance, do we write, “He reflected on the situation” when “he cogitated” would express all?
Let us illustrate a bit more:
He spoke reprovingly to the boy. He chided the boy.
He spoke in a mocking, deriding manner. He jeered.
His breath came convulsively and brokenly. He gasped.
They exchanged idle words and gossip. They babbled.
He gave utterance again to the thought. He echoed the thought.
He was filled with wonder. He marveled.
He busied himself with the affairs of his neighbors. He meddled.
He thought over the situation. He meditated.
He uttered a suppressed groan. He moaned.
She spoke in low indistinct words. She mumbled.
His was an exhibition of empty talk. He palavered.