Give Me Liberty And Keep the Desk   

A reformed copy editor returns to reporting and discovers it's not quite as easy as it looked from the rim.

History will bear me out on this one: Patrick Henry was just as indecisive as I am.

"Give me liberty," he demanded at one point, "or give me death." In the long run, of course, he got both. But the point here is that he comes off as being pretty unclear about his goals.

Me too. My choice just hasn't been quite so dramatic.

For me, it's been a choice between liberty and the desk – that is, whether I wanted to be a free-roaming reporter or a cold-blooded copy editor. I chose liberty at first, hiring on as a reporter for my first few years out of college. Then I changed to the desk, working 11 more years as a copy editor at several mid-size dailies across the West. It was more money, and I didn't have to sit through any more dull county commissioner meetings. Instead, I had to sit through dull newsroom meetings.

But last spring, I decided I was done trying to outrun impossible early-run deadlines and learn new technology that didn't seem to have much to do with why I'd picked journalism as a major to begin with. And let's face it: There are only so many ways to write a headline that announces another senator's been caught with his pants down. "Give me liberty," I announced when the editors of a paper near my hometown invited me to come write features for them, "and keep the desk." It was a defiant moment.

But when I tore off my stripes, though, I began seeing stars. Because as it turns out, back in my desk days, I may have had it easier than I thought. Then, all I had to do to get paid was show up, randomly change some "almosts" to "nearlys," make sure nobody used "hike" to mean "increase" and make real sure I didn't accidentally write a headline trumpeting that a "pubic hearing" had been set for Tuesday.

Easy. It was about as easy as the rest of us editors used to think reporters had it. ("Where is everybody today?" we'd wonder when the police scanner crackled with breaking news that echoed through a vacant newsroom. "Off at another schmoozy seminar?") Wï'd fume when some smug reporter would announce at 10:30 p.m. that his front page llama story – well, "piece," as he probably would've called it – just didn't look like it was going to happen tonight. "Oh, and that was your lead art? Bummer!"

It was no fun when someone would innocently ask if we'd heard about the 12-inch sidebar that would be coming with her annexation package. And by the way, had anyone told us about the maps? "Sorrrry," they'd shrug, then happily run off to play. Patrick Henry probably would've chosen death for them. Or at least offered them their liberty – with a swift kick in the britches to get them started in the right direction.

Being desk editors, of course, we merely grumbled among ourselves after they left. It all seemed so cut-and-dried: Editors did all the work, took all the blame, got none of the glory. Reporters flitted around town, visited with folks who might make fun little stories someday, occasionally dropped by the newsroom to catch up on the gossip and sip a little latté – then fluttered off to pick up kids or play some softball. Simple.

Well, I'm only saying this once, but my view from the desk may have had a few obstructions. As it turns out, reporting's a little more harrowing than I remembered. While I didn't feel as much like a trained pigeon as I used to when I was pecking at the latest computer equipment on the desk, there were other pitfalls. Like when I'd write a story that irritated people: They call you. And they won't hang up. Hearing an explanation of how the story fits in with the paper's latest mission statement doesn't seem to soothe them much either. There was also this little problem: Occasionally, stories just fall through..at around 10:30 p.m. or so. Then you'd have to go face those clods on the copy desk, who think stories just grow on trees. Worst of all, when the scanner erupts, it could easily end up being my problem. I couldn't very well take care of it by jerking my thumb at someone who doesn't look particularly busy and ordering them out the door.

When reporters would sit down for some latté and start griping about how unimaginative those ignoramuses on the copy desk are, I sometimes couldn't keep my mind from wandering. Had I made the right choice, I wondered? In general, I figured I had. I certaLnly enjoyed the work more, even if I had to start wearing cleaner shirts.

But the drawbacks loomed large: less money and less say.

So in the end, I whiffed. I recently started another new job – back on the copy desk. The AP Leaf photo desk is still frustratingly sluggish, typesetters still get backed up right aroung deadline, and desk drones still stare into their tubes like zombies while everybody else goes out on the town on Friday nights. Just like I remembered it.

Maybe that's a topic for the people who invented newsroom teams and employee empowerment programs to take up: Why do newspapers insist on rewarding good reporters by promoting them to the desk, where the skills that made them valuable to begin with become secondary to ones they don't necessarily possess? Wouldn't it be simpler just to recognize that different ends of the newsroom call for different skills – all of which are crucial to putting out a good paper? What would Patrick Henry say if he could see the corporate complications of the country he helped invent?

Well, I'm sure I don't know. But, to keep a long story from getting any longer, I guess the lesson here is that if you're looking for liberty, think things through pretty carefully before you put your John Hancock on anything.