My first job in the Senate was answering constituent mail. Not just letters, but emails and (often irate) phone calls. There were about six of us covering our large Midwestern state, most in our early twenties, divided into issue areas. I was in charge of health care, abortion, and numerous “children and family” issues.
Our supervisor was a sweater-vested, mustachioed man who really would have been better off being a junior high algebra teacher. He developed a packet for the Legislative Correspondents that included a number of sample letters, tips and pitfalls to avoid. It opened with a quote from his own father (who I think actually was an algebra teacher), “Do not write to be understood. Write so that you cannot be misunderstood.”
Bullshit.
I worked on Capitol Hill for almost ten years. I graduated from writing letters to writing speeches and op-eds and press releases. And trust me – there are plenty of times in politics where you just want to hit that sweet spot between saying what you mean and meaning what you say. Ambiguity rules most of the time.
When I left government for the private sector, it was way, way worse. Absolute garbage like “suboptimal efficiencies” and “leveraging key stakeholders” seem to be of far more value to the corporate and non-profit world than real English. There is this limited universe of jargon and if you aren’t borrowing heavily from it, then you are regarded with suspicion. I have seen clients visibly relax when I finally break down and throw out something about “target audiences” or “messaging.”
I’m not naïve. I know that different professions come with different cultures and languages and norms. But as I try to make the transition to some “real” writing, I feel sort of like a Replicant going against her programming.
Ideas and phrases tumble around in my brain, but by the time I go to write them down, they’re all clenched up and scrubbed down.
And I don't trust my own voice. Even up there, when I wrote "should have been a junior high algebra teacher" my brain immediately started scolding: Well, that's just what you think. Who are you to say what another human being should or should not have done with his or her life? Just because he wore a lot of sweater vests doesn't devalue his work...
“Resist the urge to be fair,” said Stephen Elliott when I went to his workshop earlier this month.
I’m adding to that – “Resist the urge to write talking points.”
23 December 2009
11 December 2009
Tales From the 22
The first really cold day – cold enough that I pull out my puffy white Princess Leia coat for my trip downtown. It hasn’t been cleaned – I was banking on not having to use it until January, so it’s a little dingy and I apparently used it as a coaster at some point last winter, as evidenced by the dirty round stain on the front right breast.
I shouldn’t worry about how I look in this get-up. Chicagoans take winter seriously, and even in my self-consciously snazzy neighborhood, pretty much every woman on the street is wearing some version of this coat. My ex-boyfriend used to call me “The Grub” when I wore it, and I guess that’s not an image I really want to fixate on, especially since I’ve been experiencing an acute case of “can’t keep my pants zipped” and “damn, this skirt fit last winter.” I want to be an alpine goddess, but instead I’m all grubby.
On the bus, I try to prevent a full-on downward spiral by taking deep breaths and looking out the window. “I am a literary icon….I am the Leader of the Rebel Alliance…” all kinds of little made-up mantras.
She gets on at Division. Tall, pretty, thin. Her hair is long, straight and black, in one of those messy ponytails that also look perfect. She plops her bag down on the seat in front of me and starts dialing her cell. Here are the things I can tell about her: she is some sort of a cocktail waitress, she just rolled out of bed and she hits the self tanner way, way too hard.
Then she starts babbling to her friend in that dumb white girl voice that so many people use these days.
Listening to her is like picking a scab, revolting and irresistible.
How did I get here? What’s the use of being all tortured and poor and feeling like a fatass on a public bus? Why didn’t I just quit eating and get implants and start serving drinks at Crescendo when I was 23? I want to be like her. Pretty and stupid.
At Hubbard, she starts pulling the cord frantically, still on the phone. “What’s going on with this bus? ” she asks her friend on the line. “Is this Kinzie?” She pulls. Pulls. Stop Requested appears on the front sign, so I don’t know what she’s waiting for. Maybe she can’t read it?
She pulls it again and again, looking out the window.
“Is this Kinzie?” she calls out to the guy standing at the back door, ready to get off.
“Yeah,” he says, and steps off the bus.
She leaps up, slings the bag over her shoulder and stands at the door as it closes in her face. Still on the phone, she stands there, staring. The light’s about to change and she’s going to miss her stop.
“Can you open this door?” She yells up at the driver as he’s about to pull away from the curb.
“All you have to do is lean on it!” booms the man in the seat next to me, distinguished in his white hair, herringbone wool coat and briefcase.
Dumb girl gets the message, pushes the door open and wobbles out into the street in her Uggs, still talking of boob jobs and parties at Stone Lotus and her boyfriend.
My seatmate turns to me, “That is a very foolish young woman,” he says in his loud lawyer voice.
“Yes.” I say, nodding. “Yes, she is.”
And I resume my mental diplomatic mission to Aldaraan.
I shouldn’t worry about how I look in this get-up. Chicagoans take winter seriously, and even in my self-consciously snazzy neighborhood, pretty much every woman on the street is wearing some version of this coat. My ex-boyfriend used to call me “The Grub” when I wore it, and I guess that’s not an image I really want to fixate on, especially since I’ve been experiencing an acute case of “can’t keep my pants zipped” and “damn, this skirt fit last winter.” I want to be an alpine goddess, but instead I’m all grubby.
On the bus, I try to prevent a full-on downward spiral by taking deep breaths and looking out the window. “I am a literary icon….I am the Leader of the Rebel Alliance…” all kinds of little made-up mantras.
She gets on at Division. Tall, pretty, thin. Her hair is long, straight and black, in one of those messy ponytails that also look perfect. She plops her bag down on the seat in front of me and starts dialing her cell. Here are the things I can tell about her: she is some sort of a cocktail waitress, she just rolled out of bed and she hits the self tanner way, way too hard.
Then she starts babbling to her friend in that dumb white girl voice that so many people use these days.
“I’m so tired. I shouldn’t have stayed out so late with Brandon and those guys. But I’m not going to get to see him until, like, New Year’s. I mean, he’s going to be pre-partying and then football, and if he’s pre-partying, there’s going to be an after party. And when he parties he likes to get fucked up, you know? But I’m like, it’s going to be two days before Christmas and the day of my boob job? So I guess he’s not going to like, be there to take care of me? But whatever. I mean he gets fucked up. But I’ll be ready to go out by New Year’s. They do the surgeries on Tuesdays and Saturdays, and the woman said that I’ll be sore for like, four days after, but in about a week I should be fine, so by New Year’s it’ll be a week and two days, I think I’ll be fine. I’m so excited. So I don’t know if I’ll see him on Christmas, though. I’m staying out at my mom and dad’s so that I can like, be there after my boob job and for Christmas and whatever. He said he might come over. I’ll be sore, but it will be worth it. And I’ll see him on New Year’s anyway…”
Listening to her is like picking a scab, revolting and irresistible.
How did I get here? What’s the use of being all tortured and poor and feeling like a fatass on a public bus? Why didn’t I just quit eating and get implants and start serving drinks at Crescendo when I was 23? I want to be like her. Pretty and stupid.
At Hubbard, she starts pulling the cord frantically, still on the phone. “What’s going on with this bus? ” she asks her friend on the line. “Is this Kinzie?” She pulls. Pulls. Stop Requested appears on the front sign, so I don’t know what she’s waiting for. Maybe she can’t read it?
She pulls it again and again, looking out the window.
“Is this Kinzie?” she calls out to the guy standing at the back door, ready to get off.
“Yeah,” he says, and steps off the bus.
She leaps up, slings the bag over her shoulder and stands at the door as it closes in her face. Still on the phone, she stands there, staring. The light’s about to change and she’s going to miss her stop.
“Can you open this door?” She yells up at the driver as he’s about to pull away from the curb.
“All you have to do is lean on it!” booms the man in the seat next to me, distinguished in his white hair, herringbone wool coat and briefcase.
Dumb girl gets the message, pushes the door open and wobbles out into the street in her Uggs, still talking of boob jobs and parties at Stone Lotus and her boyfriend.
My seatmate turns to me, “That is a very foolish young woman,” he says in his loud lawyer voice.
“Yes.” I say, nodding. “Yes, she is.”
And I resume my mental diplomatic mission to Aldaraan.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
