the editor talks with you

As a teenaged infantry grunt in Korea, I spent idle moments dreaming about my future. That was, if I got out of this God-forsaken country in one piece. I loved the Korean people and felt for them living in war-torn poverty in one of the worst climates on earth – minus 15° in winter and plus 105° in summer. I did not dream of a career as a newspaper editor, although that’s what God seems to have had in mind for me. Stupid me, I dreamed of writing great literature with sweeping sagas that touched readers’ hearts and minds. That’s ambitious dreaming when you’re in the field in a foreign country and your most fervent desire is for a hot meal, shower, shave, clean clothes and weekend pass.

Journalism appealed to me as it came with a paycheck and a ticket to experiences most people will never have. That’s the kind of experience writers need. With my father’s encouragement, I went to see Carl Wymer at The Greenville News and asked for a job as a reporter. “Reporters are a dime a dozen,” he said. “What I need is editors.” “I’m your man, Mr. Wymer,” I said. “There’s one catch,” he said. “Tomorrow we’re interviewing a masters degree graduate from the University of South Carolina. If we don’t hire him, you can have the job.” I figured that closed the door to me.

The next afternoon, Mr. Wymer called and asked if I still wanted the job. I did. Did I have any questions? he asked. “What happened to the guy with the university masters degree?” I asked. “Oh, he thought he was too good for us,” he said. I thought I heard him chuckle although he wasn’t the chuckling type. What a gift Mr. Wymer – and the University of South Carolina – gave me.

So here our family is in Lexington all these years later, editing 2 fine little weekly newspapers, dealing with the same taxes, traffic and other concerns of our readers. We make a living, keep the bills paid and work with a group of fellow newspaper people we dearly love. I thank God daily. Life doesn’t get much better than this. One thing I love about this work is its sense of intimacy with our readers. They say they love our papers – and mean it. Whether you hold it in your hands or read it online, our newspapers have insinuated themselves into your life. You actually look forward to Thursday because that’s the day the weekly edition pops up in your email or is delivered to your mailbox by our friends at the post office.

In this little corner of the Chronicle, it is my privilege to talk with you about our lives, loves and common concerns. Who else in the world but a few ink-stained wretches enjoy such a gift. When young writers ask how they can find their voice, how they can develop a style truly their own, my advice is simple: Imagine you are writing your mother a letter. Write it in simple language. Tell it to her because she knows it is from you. She will want to read what you have to share. Readers look at me, an aging fellow with little hair, and ask if I ever plan to retire. “I hope not,” I say, “I’m doing what God intended for me to do.”

Next: What if we had no newspapers?

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