When my friend and colleague Rick Edmonds died after a traffic accident, I began to think about all the things I had learned from him: about the news business, about crafting clear sentences, about raising daughters.
Rick and I were good friends, but not close friends. Close friends share meals and have phone calls, sometimes late ones. They help each other solve personal problems. Rick and I did none of that.
We were contemporaries. Born a year apart. Graduated from college a year apart. Married a year apart, in unions that would last more than a half century. Over the last decade, we found ourselves sharing space in the Poynter library — his desk near mine, without the privacy of a door.
We named our special space the Assisted Living Wing of the Poynter Institute.
Our proximity invited countless interesting conversations, building blocks of friendship.
About 20 years ago, Rick became my golf coach. He was quite the athlete in his youth — tennis, squash, baseball. And, in my eyes, he was a talented golfer, a big man with an easy swing. Like Ernie Els. If you want to get to know a person, try riding in a golf cart with them for four hours in the Florida sun. Now try doing that 100 times.
When it came to coaching writers, Don Fry and I wrote a book. But I also drew many lessons from Rick’s coaching style, lessons that I apply now to my writing, my teaching and my everyday life.
I can list those lessons in these six slogans:
Never up, never in.
In other words, hit a putt hard enough so that it will reach the hole.
For writers: Good writers are always looking for the opportunity to try something different — to surprise the reader with a last word. The key is not to be half-hearted. Editors can moderate your excesses. Go for it. Never up, never in.
Not so fast.
I assumed that the faster, the harder I swung, the farther the ball would travel. Not true.
For writers: In most cases, you want to give the reader the quickest experience of language. But there are times when you want the reader to slow down — perhaps to make a difficult policy clearer; perhaps for emotional effect. The key is shorter sentences. The period is a stop sign.
Have just one swing thought.
A golf swing is a complicated action with many parts. Rotate your shoulders. Stay behind the ball. Don’t choke the club. And many more.
For writers: You may be reporting on many things, but your story should be about one thing. Call it a focus. The news, peg or nut that winds up in a headline or a lead.
A small change can mean a lot.
Tee the ball up a little higher — or lower. Move the ball forward in your stance — just an inch. Pay attention to the position of your thumb.
For writers: My favorite example comes from Shakespeare: “The Queen, my Lord, is dead.” I would have written, “The Queen is dead, my Lord.” Six words. But look at the different effect when Shakespeare creates emphatic word order by placing the key word at the end. That small revision means a lot.
If no money is involved, take a mulligan.
That’s golf’s name for a do-over.
For writers: In a game where professionals are so anal about the rules, it’s good to have an escape hatch. So, writers, by all means, follow the rules of AP Style — unless you can think of something that’s obviously better.
Remember the good swings.
I have heard many a duffer make one great shot in an awful round and say, “That will bring me back for the next round.”
For writers: I know a newspaper writer who has more than 12,000 bylines to his credit. When you are in a slump, revisit some of your best work and try to recall the process you used to create it.
During my first round with Rick, I shot a 75 — on the front nine. He offered a couple of tips, and I shot a 50 on the back. That’s a round of 125 — only 53 over par. Five years later, on the same course, I shot a magical 82, and no one was happier for me than Rick. Of all my rounds, I remember that one the most.
Here’s a bonus tip: Golf’s not worth the time and effort if you are not having some fun. The same can be said for writing.
One day a raccoon hopped onto our friend Bill’s golf cart, stole his cheese crackers and dipped them delicately into Bill’s drink. A few holes later, Bill yelled, “He stole my watch!” Imagine the three of us, clubs in hands, searching the woods for Bill’s watch. We imagined that the raccoon had set up a little business, offering golfers watches at a discount.
Here’s another bonus tip: Don’t be afraid to call yourself a writer. I can call myself a musician — because I play the piano. I can call myself a golfer — because I golf. You can call yourself a writer — because you write.
In his “What I Learned” series, Roy Peter Clark — often called America’s writing coach — finds writing wisdom in unexpected places, drawing storytelling lessons from culture, current events and everyday life.
