Some parts of this job get easier with time. Writing editorials has not been one of them.
Reporting is straightforward. You gather facts, confirm them twice, call one more person just to be safe, and write what happened. There are rules. There is structure. There is a finish line.
Editorials are the opposite. They are a blank page that stares back like it knows your browser history. In past newsrooms I have worked in, it was the bane of the editor’s existence every week and quickly became a space filled with syndicated opinion pieces.
From the start, I knew that was not what this space would ever look like. With that being said, I feel that editor’s pain. Every edition.
And yet, somehow, this is the one thing people compliment me on the most.
Not the articles. Not the long nights rewriting council coverage so it actually makes sense to a human being. Not the deadlines, the layout puzzles, or the small miracle of getting a paper out the door every two weeks.
No. It is always the editorials.
Which is kind, genuinely. Also deeply confusing.
Because editorials are, by far, the hardest thing I write.
They require opinions, which is risky business when your job is to serve an entire community that does not agree on anything except that the weather is unpredictable and the ferry is late. They require honesty, but not too much. Personality, but not ego. Conviction, but not arrogance. Clarity, but not simplicity. You are supposed to say something meaningful without lighting any unnecessary fires, while also not being boring, defensive, or vague.
It is like trying to thread a needle on a moving boat, during a windstorm, while people shout helpful advice from the dock.
Most weeks, I rewrite editorials more than any other piece. This editorial is brought to you by the fluke that Janet’s column had the same theme as the now-killed editorial.
I cut lines I secretly like. I add context. I remove spice. I put the spice back. I stare at sentences, wondering if they are insightful or just loud. I worry about being misunderstood. I worry about not saying enough. I worry about saying too much.
Then I hit publish and immediately think of five better ways I could have written the opening paragraph.
So when people tell me editorials are my strength, I never quite know how to respond. Part of me wants to say thank you. Another part wants to say you should see the versions that died in the drafts folder.
Maybe that is the trick of it.
Maybe the reason they land is because they cost more. More thought. More second-guessing. More time sitting quietly with uncomfortable questions instead of clean answers. Reporting tells you what happened. Editorials ask what it means, and whether we are doing any better than last time.
That is heavier work, even when it is written lightly.
Or maybe people just like knowing there is a real person behind the paper. Someone who is unsure, trying, occasionally wrong, and still willing to put their name under the words.
If so, that might be the nicest compliment of all.
Even if I still think editorials are a nightmare.
Stacey
