Technically
speaking, I was still freelancing for a good part of 1975. The Voice was only one of my jobs, but it’s
the freelance job that became permanent—and it was also a dream job. I’d been
reading the Voice since I’d come to
New York 11 years earlier.
My time there
could be divided into three parts. In Part I, I was a part-time copyeditor,
first free-lance, then on staff. In Part II, I was full-time and helped to organize the union
after Murdoch bought the paper. And in Part III, I became
copy chief, then deputy managing editor.
Freelance copyeditor
From being
a regular reader, I now had a chance to meet the writers whose names I knew
only as bylines. My first three days there, I worked six hours straight without
even noticing; I didn’t get hungry, I didn’t feel overburdened, I loved it. The
part of the job I hated, though, was fact-checking. The Voice had almost no
reference books, and many of the names and places referred to in Voice articles
wouldn’t have been in mainstream reference books anyway. To fact-check, I had
to call theaters, galleries, organizations, businesses, and ask, “Is this name
spelled right?” I felt stupid doing it at first, but the people I called didn’t
seem to mind, so I got used to it. But I never liked that part of the job. I
wrote in my journal that I imagined there were hordes of people in the city who
wondered who this dumb woman was who wanted to know how to spell names, like
Buky Schwartz, a photographer, or the dancer Jana Haimsohn.
The first
article I was given to copy edit was by a writer I almost never read: Jill
Johnston. Jill had a very idiosyncratic style, all lower-case letters and no
punctuation. Reading her column was like coming into the middle of a
conversation among people you didn’t know about people you didn’t know. Now,
however, I had to read it from beginning to end. My boss the copy chief said
that the new owner, Clay Felker (founder of New York magazine), insisted that
Jill at least use periods, so it became my job to suggest where periods might
go.
The task
turned out to be quite insightful. Reading Jill Johnston slowly, word by word, I
began to understand what she was saying. It became a puzzle to determine where
a sentence might begin and end. This was all on paper, years before computers became
standard. When I was done, I handed the pages back to Jill’s editor, who would
be responsible for calling her and passing on the suggestions. (A few years
later I was briefly Jill’s editor and managed to persuade her to capitalize
proper nouns and add paragraphs to a feature about the new agey Findhorn
community in Scotland.)
I was
always surprised to see how people’s names rarely matched their appearances in
my imagination. Leighton Kerner, the classical music critic, must, I thought,
be lean and elegant, maybe even carry a cane; instead, he was average height
and quite overweight; he shambled rather than strode. Robert Christgau, eminent
rock critic and music editor, clearly enjoyed dancing, but his moves would not
have gotten him into a music video. (Neither would mine.) Nat Hentoff was more grizzled than I had
imagined; I sometimes saw him walking down 12th Street with face buried in a
newspaper, much like people today are buried in their phones. Geoffrey Stokes’s
appearance was more disheveled than his clean writing and open and sardonic
personality.
At first I
was a freelancer for two days, Friday and Monday, the days the weekly closed.
After a couple of months, I was told they would have to drop me because the
typesetting company they were using and perhaps partially owned had closed and
they felt obligated to give the proofreaders at this plant tryouts as
copyeditors. But a few months later, they called me back; the proofreaders
hadn’t worked out.
I had
stopped smoking shortly before getting pregnant three years earlier, but from
the moment I started working at the Voice, I was tempted. All the copy people
smoked, and in those days it was still acceptable to smoke indoors in work
situations. “I can’t do it,” I wrote in my journal, “but the temptation is
getting stronger.”
In 1975 the
Voice was on the corner of University Place and 11th Street. In good weather, I
walked across 12th Street from the subway at Seventh Avenue. It was the middle of the gasoline
crisis, and one day, as I watched cars moving down Fifth Avenue, those
automobiles took on the aspect of dinosaurs, which I expected would soon vanish
from Earth.
Next door
to the Voice was the Cedar Tavern, an old hangout for 1950s beats and artists,
and now Voice writers, and further up the block was the Japanese restaurant
Japonica, where I sometimes had lunch or ordered takeout. The Voice was in its
own five-story building. Classified ads were on the first floor, making it easy
for people to walk in and buy an ad for anything: selling, buying, jobs, even
the “you were on the #2 train yesterday at 3 p.m., wearing a red dress”
personals. Display ad salespeople were on the second floor, and administration
(accounting, personnel, the publisher) on the third. Fourth floor had staff
writers and space for freelancers who might need a typewriter or copy machine.
On the top floor were the editors, copyeditors, art and production, along with
the editor-in-chief and managing editor. In the basement was storage (a trove
of back issues) and the mail room, presided over by a very young Jesus Diaz. A
slow elevator at the front of the building was matched by stairs at the back,
and those of us on the top floor only used the elevator to get to street level;
stairs were always quicker to get to other floors.
The copy
department when I started consisted of Helena Hacker, copy chief, and two
copyeditors: Susan Klebanoff and Rod Faber. After I’d been on staff for several
months, Susan was on leave for health reasons, and I was given her
four-day-a-week shift. When she returned, I went back to two or three days a
week.
While typesetting
companies were beginning to use computers, the Voice editorial workers was
still using paper. Writers typed their stories on typewriters, and editors
marked up the paper, sometimes with the classic red pencil, before handing the
story on to the copy department. Editing and copyediting at the Voice, however,
were collaborative processes. Editors sat with writers and discussed changes,
and copyeditors could only suggest changes, only correcting obvious mistakes.
The Voice was a writer’s paper, we were constantly told, the writer’s voice to
be preserved as much as possible.
This
sometimes caused logistical problems, as when a writer left the office after
being edited but before the copyeditor had yet done their work on the piece.
Late on Friday or Monday, when a package of stories had to be driven to the
typesetter at specific times, it was frustrating to either hold the piece until
the writer returned or could be reached at home, or send it off knowing there
would have to be changes on galleys. This was long before cellphones, so once a
writer had left the building he or she was unreachable for some time. This
became such a problem that eventually, on Monday nights (which was editorial
closing day), dinner was brought into the office from nearby restaurants, to
keep all the writers on the premises until their stories were sent off to the
typesetter. Veselka’s, with Ukrainian food, was a favorite, eventually
prompting the joke that after eating Veselka’s food, a week later you were
hungry again—a turn on the Chinese restaurant joke.
I went on
staff two days a week in late September 1975 (on the masthead as
"editorial staff” in the September 29 issue), and my first Monday was a
full day, which meant 13 hours, from 10 a.m. to 11 p.m. At the end of the day,
I wrote in my journal, “My head feels very spacey.... I don’t know how Helena
and Susan do this every week.” In the winter of 1976, Susan became quite sick
and I worked more days, including my first time going to the typesetter in Mt.
Kisco. After working late Monday the night before, I had to get up very early on
Tuesday morning, and once we arrived at the plant, it all seemed very confusing,
people working very quickly and not much talking. In March Rod, the other
full-time copy editor, was fired; Helena didn’t think I was interested in that
much work (it involved being in charge of the whole back of the book, meaning
all the arts sections), but wanted to give me first refusal. I’d guessed he
might be fired at any moment and had thought about whether I wanted his job, so
I was ready to say no.
My own writing
Writing was
something I had been doing off and on my entire life. I’d keep a journal for a
year or two, but rereading it, I’d feel so disconnected from the person who’d
written those words, I’d throw it out. (I’m sorry now!) For an English
assignment in ninth grade, I wrote an extremely derivative Zane Grey–style
western, and in 11th grade a very teenagerish poem. At 20, I had the temerity
to send that poem to the New Yorker;
of course, it was rejected. Then, I wrote a letter to the editor of the Antioch Record, my college paper, and it
was printed. What excitement to see my name and my words in print. About 10
years later, a Daily News column
about the delights of vacationing with children prompted me to send them a
reply about the work involved in vacationing with children, which they printed,
to my surprise — but didn’t offer to pay me.
Since the
editing process was clearly visible when it took place on paper, it was easy to
see how heavily some regular writers were edited, which gave me the confidence
to think I could write as well as, if not better than, these writers being
paid. I felt I could only write about something I was expert in, however, and
at this point, the only thing I felt I was an expert about was being a mother.
So when Jane Lazarre’s book The Mother
Knot was published early in 1976 and K.D. was wondering about who would be
good to review it, I spoke up. I felt in tune with Lazarre’s ambivalence about
motherhood. She spoke to the book review editor, and by the time she tossed me
the galley, I’d forgotten I asked for it—and was momentarily scared. But “I can
do it,” I said, partly to convince myself, and K.D. replied, “Of course you
can.” That was my first paid publication ($150; that's equivalent to almost $815 today. Does anyone get that for a book review?) — and I started a
tradition of buying a new garment with part of my proceeds, in this case, a
dark green cotton blouse with long sleeves ending in cuffs with three
cloth-covered buttons, which I still own, though the cuffs are frayed at the
edge. Eliot Fremont-Smith was my editor, and I didn’t learn until some time
later that he had gone to my college, about 10 years earlier than me, where his
nickname was “Hyphen.”
The next
piece I wrote also hinged on childcare. I proposed to K.D., my friend and
editor, that I write “something” about daycare, but I felt very insecure about
it. I hated interviewing unless I had specific questions to ask, and I was just
learning how to start a conversation with someone I didn’t know. Remember, in
my first job, as a salesclerk, at 18, I was so shy I walked away from customers
approaching me at the costume jewelry counter. Finally, I decided to start
writing with whatever information I had, then I could see what holes there were
and where I needed anecdotes, so then I would have those needed specific
questions. A couple of months in, Jack Newfield told me he was looking into
daycare scandals, and he, K.D., and I agreed that, as I wrote in my journal,
“he could do the story about the people doing the fucking, and I could do the
story about the people being fucked.” This gave my story the focus I hadn’t yet
found. And when the story was published, Newfield’s was highlighted on the
front page, and so was my little story. How exciting.
What would
I write next? I proposed another daycare piece, then hoped it would be turned
down because I would have had to write it quickly, and I wasn’t confident I
could do that. My husband suggested I find an about-to-be-new field and claim
it as mine. What might that be? Perhaps the fact that by 2030, old people would
be 20% of the U.S. population, many of them well-educated women, women like me?
Maybe I didn’t know how to imagine what it would be like to be old, as I never
followed up on that possibility.
Changes at the Voice,
and in the copy department
I was still
two days a week, and there was a new copy editor: M. Mark. One evening in June I
had dinner with M. and Susan. The copy chief, Helena, was doing more editing
and not copy editing as much, yet was still in charge of the copy department. This
left M. and Susan feeling overworked. They thought it would help if there was a
copy editor just for the occasional supplements tied to advertising; I wondered
if I wanted to volunteer for that, and decided, no, a supplement editor would
need to be concerned with who advertisers, and I’d be no good at that.
More
changes: in June, Judy Daniels, the managing editor, whom Felker had brought
over from New York magazine, said she
would return to New York, and another
editor was leaving to work at a newspaper in New Jersey. This news prompted me
to ask Tom Morgan, the editor-in-chief, about working full-time, then realized
that was a bad idea. (I was always thinking first about what I wanted to do at
the Voice and only later how that had to be worked in with the fact that I had
a four-year-old and a husband and we would have child-care arrangements to
adjust. My journal is full of my saying I was willing to take on some
responsibility, then hoping they would say “no” because I knew it would cause
complicated negotiations with Jack or problems finding a babysitter.)
A few weeks
later it became clear that the departing editor would not be replaced; her work
was divided up among current editors, but Helena got most of it, though she would
still remain as copy chief. All of these changes required me to work full-time.
The next couple of days involved intense negotiation (and consultation with
Jack) over the hours and the salary. (I knew how much Susan was paid, and I
didn’t want to get less.) There was another personnel question: as a
part-timer, I was due for a salary review in September. If my status changed to
full-time, would I still get the salary review (and possible raise) in
September, or would full-time be considered a new job, thus no salary review
for another year? Judy Daniels saw this as “an interesting question” and after
she consulted with others, it was determined it was a “new job.”
I began
working full-time — which meant four days, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and
Monday — in mid-July. Now and then I’d go to the plant on Tuesday, then have
Wednesday off. In August, Helena went on vacation, and I got to edit three
columns, Press Clips, Scenes, and Culture Shock.
A month
later, we had a new managing editor, Marianne Partridge, from Rolling Stone, and she had ideas for
reorganizing the copy department. She wanted M. to be copy chief and Susan to
be head of a fact-checking section. M. felt uncomfortable being offered this as
Susan had more seniority than she did and said she’d wait for Susan to decide.
I wondered how this would affect me, of course, and whether I might have to
work five days. M. did became copy chief.
Howard
Smith and I had a fight over an edit in which I’d made a factual error. Howard
insisted he’d been writing his column for 10 years so didn’t need anyone to
rewrite him, and claimed he’d been writing about “women’s lib” before anyone
else had. “Bouquets and brickbats" piled up. Marianne removed some text
from Scenes, which I had edited, that she thought was offensive, and at the
plant I’d found the name of a man in a photo, but it was the wrong name. On the
other hand, I objected to a headline at the plant, and my substitute hed was
used for a national edition the Voice was then producing (and shortly thereafter
killed). I began to wonder whether I could ever be an editor.
More
personnel changes at the top (Marianne became editor-in-chief) and in the copy
department (Susan left for a business magazine). I became mildly envious when
masthead titles changed, Helena becoming a senior associate editor and M. an associate
editor, while Linda Perney moved from editorial staff to join me as an assistant
editor.
Work was
infecting my dreams. One morning I woke up with the headline “Strike It Kitsch
on Staten Island.” (What was the story? who knows.) When I told someone at the
Voice when I reported for work, I was told, “Go back to sleep.”
Social life
This was
the ’70s, and sex was everywhere. On top of that, Jack and I had decided, when
we got married and without much thought, that sexual fidelity was not that
important, so long as we were honest with each other. We’d gotten married
young, at 22, and, in a sense, dating sort of continued.
I went to my first Voice Christmas party in 1975, at
the Fifth Avenue hotel. I had bought a floor-length dark magenta dress with
halter top and backless to the waist—I think I only ever wore it at this
Christmas party. The party itself didn’t have much dancing, but I felt quite
sexy in the dress, dancing or not, and got invited to a New Year’s Eve party
because of it. After the official Christmas party was over, some of us crowded
into a taxi and went to a disco club at 111 Hudson Street, known as the Ones. Alex
Cockburn was quite drunk and romancing all the women. As I was getting ready to
leave, Alex said, “Let’s have one dance before you go,” so we danced, with a
lot of touching, hugging, and a few pecks of kisses. Was it the dress? or the
situation? or the drink? And when I got home Jack was annoyed that I was so
late, even though I had done exactly what he did when he was out drinking:
called once to say I’d be home in an hour, then an hour or so later, called
again to say I’d be home in an hour. (Funny, I didn’t note this similarity in
my journal at the time or say it to Jack.)
In the
winter of 1976, I developed an intense crush on the art director, which,
according to my journal, took over my psychic life and caused a (temporary) rift
between my editor friend and me. Seems she and the art director were having a
secret affair (while he was living with someone else), and the fact that he
seemed also interested in me led to all sorts of complications. Even once I
decided not to pursue my urges, I continued to write about my attraction in my
journal for months. All we ever did was have dinner once and a drink another
time, when he asked what my sex fantasies were, and I said I didn’t have any. I
think he lost interest then; maybe no sex fantasies meant I was boring?
My journals
are full of fantasies about men at work I was interested in, but rarely made
any advances to. There was one affair with B. in production that lasted a
couple of months; he was in his mid-20s, but easy and sometimes fun to talk
with. But this “adventure” didn’t have the intensity of the affair that never
happened with the art director, leading me to muse in my journal about the
difference between “romance” (why I pursued the art director) and “lust” (why I
pursued B.B.).
Jack came
with me to the Christmas party in 1976. When we first arrived and Jack went off
to find us drinks, B. wrapped an arm around me from behind. “My husband’s
here,” I whispered. “That’s cool,” he said, unfazed and not moving. And was
still there when Jack returned with drinks, so I had to introduce them. Then B.
rapidly vanished. After saying hello to some people he knew, Jack pronounced it
“the tackiest scene” he’d ever seen and left. I spent the rest of the evening dancing
(music courtesy of the D.J. from the Anvil). The copy department had planned to
bring candy commas to give to Bob Christgau (was he a writer who used only the
commas absolutely necessary and didn’t like to see the optional commas added by
copy editors?), but decided against it. (Maybe too hard to find, too hard to
explain to a candy maker what a candy comma should look like.) At midnight, the
music stopped abruptly and we were all supposed to leave. Like last year, we
piled into cabs and went to Ones, where I engaged in some light necking and
petting with J.P. At one point I had a flicker of wondering what he was
thinking of me, and then, that I didn’t care. I was enjoying myself and liked
what we were doing.
Big changes about to
come
In the fall
of 1976, Rupert Murdoch bought the New
York Post, and in late December came the first hint that ownership at the Voice was about to change again.
