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.
