In the newsroom: memoir 20

Though just a newsroom aide at the San Luis Obispo Telegram-Tribune ($5/hour), I was thrilled it involved writing: weather reports, wedding and anniversary blubs and -- most fascinating of all -- obituaries. By 8 a.m. the funeral homes would call with the death notices and I would then try to shape the nicest stories out of the grimmest details. Sometimes I phoned family members to learn more about their loved one so that the obit could have a little warmth.
    Since the T-T was an afternoon paper, my deadline was 10 a.m.
    With the phone cradled on my shoulder, I wrote in a spiral notebook then typed. After observing the reporters, I weaned myself away from this middle step, soon able to imitate them by typing while on the phone. I loved the ding of the return bar and the clickity-swooosh when you pulled paper out of the inked roller. Final step, walking it over to the editor's in-basket.
    It might sound macabre, but I loved writing these short stories, as I called them.
    I got permission to visit local Funeral Homes. Having never attended a memorial or even known anyone who died, I was curious what went on there. Also, I wanted to meet the voices behind the morning calls. These solemn men in dark suits oozed compassion and were gracious about giving a tour. My footsteps were silent on the plush carpet as I crept near an open casket. I touched the pale hand that lay across the chest. Cold as marble. Okay. So now I knew. Obits usually led by name, age, and date-of-death, but I tried to begin with a fun tidbit. From my clippings:  

Emil J. Johnson, a Swedish immigrant who narrowly missed sinking with the Titanic, has died at the age of 91. When the 22-year old discovered another ship was to throw an Easter party, he changed tickets at the last minute ...

      An elder reporter, Betty, aka "The Battle Ax," confronted me one day at my desk. Her angry voice carried through the newsroom as typewriters fell silent and heads turned our way.
     "WHO told you to write obituaries that way?" she demanded.
     I was still new and innocent about her reputation for demoralizing writers. "It just seems more interesting this way," I told her.
     Five seconds is a long time when all eyes are on you. Finally Betty said, "Oh." As she turned to storm through the newsroom, heads whipped down and the cacophony resumed. Later one of the reporters, Ann Fairbanks, said, "Way to go, Kristi. We were scared you wouldn't be able to stand up to her."

From BLUE SKIES: ONE AUTHOR'S JOURNEY, to be published this Fall.

Crazy to quit the LA Times: memoir 19

"You're crazy to quit the LA Times!" Worried family and friends said this over and over.

     "Why must you give up this prestige and good income?"

     "You'll be poor."

     But my co-workers rooted for me. "Go. Get out of the Velvet Coffin while you can." One confessed that she had started there in advertising, hoping to become a reporter, but the non-union Times paid so well she didn't dare quit her cushy position.

     I feared failing, but more so I feared getting too comfortable and never leaving. The paycheck and the ocean out my front door could lull me into becoming a Beach Bum, but I needed more of a challenge.

    Still no openings at the Telegram-Tribune, I decided to move to San Luis Obispo anyway. I had friends there. Maybe in the meantime I could enroll at Cal Poly and work on my elusive degree.
     So in the early spring of 1980 I emptied my savings account, loaded my little station wagon and headed up the coast.
     The very afternoon I arrived, I visited the paper and introduced myself to Managing Editor John Marrs. Over the coming months I kept checking in with him while continuing to write reviews for The Times. Art Seidenbaum sent books along with greetings from our sportswriter and reviewer friends, including Alan Cheuse. To this day I'm happy to hear Alan's voice on NPR reviewing new releases for All Things Considered.
     While waiting, I applied for jobs in the classifieds that didn't require a college diploma. I lasted three days at a nursing home, not because of the bedpan chore, but seeing elderly people with no family made me sad. I trained at Happy Burger, wearing a blond hairnet with sensible black shoes, learning to stock the salad bar and wipe tables. When an accountant named Ed called and asked if I could start the next day, I practically screamed Yes! I ditched the hairnet and hid those clunkers in the back of my closet.

     All summer I worked in Ed's CPA office while he and his assistant Amy carried on a torrid affair. My main job was to field calls from his suspicious wife. When the duo disappeared behind a locked door and the walls thumped, my instructions were: "I'm sorry, but he's in a meeting. May I take a message?" One day Ed and Amy went to lunch and didn't return all afternoon.  That day his wife kept calling the office and finally asked if "they" were together.
    After six months of this, I was tired of lying for them.  "Yes," I answered.

    "I knew it!" she screamed and slammed down the phone.

    Then finally, FINALLY, the Telegram-Tribune offered me a job.

From BLUE SKIES: ONE AUTHOR'S JOURNEY, to be published this Fall.

Two kinds of writers: memoir 18

The more I edited book reviews at the LA Times, the more I realized I wanted to be a reporter. I needed experience though!
     When an office memo announced the famed Santa Barbara Writer's Conference I thought, aha! Eager to sign up, I wanted Art Seidenbaum's opinion. He sat at his typewriter in his book-cluttered office. When I tapped on the window, he swiveled his chair and waved me in.
     I bounced with enthusiasm. He listened. Then after he lit a cigarette he said, "Kristi, there're two kinds of writers. Those who attend conferences and those who stay home to write."
     Hmm. As I digested this, he said, "Go see Epstein."
     Bob Epstein was the View editor. He oversaw news and features for all the arts. I walked around the corner and down the hall, a bit nervous because we only had a nodding friendship. He was gracious and, like Art, he listened.
     "Bring me a scrapbook of published articles, this thick." With his thumb and forefinger, he indicated several inches. "Might take a year or two, but on a daily you'll get lots of experience. Then we'll talk."

     Thanking him, I hurried back to Art.

     He suggested The Telegram-Tribune in San Luis Obispo, four hours north by coastal highway. "It's a good daily," he said, "but it has the reputation of being rough on reporters. Chews 'em up then spits 'em out."

     I phoned the editor. No openings. But in my heart, I decided I would keep checking in with him and get ready to move.   

From BLUE SKIES: ONE AUTHOR'S JOURNEY, to be published this Fall.

Digging in at the Los Angeles Times: memoir 17

Sections of the LA Times' building were under renovation in 1978. I wondered about the paint-splattered tarpaulins hanging from ceilings and the pounding of hammers that echoed among the marbled walls and floors. Workmen with tool belts got on and off elevators.

     "They're installing VDTs," Art Seidenbaum told us. He meant Video Display Terminals. Computers. We'd get help learning how to use them, but how strange they were. Big and boxy like a TV on your desk, a green screen.

     Book Review shared the massive fourth floor with all the other reporters and critics for the arts: film, music, dance, TV. They wrote on black Underwood typewriters. I loved the clickity-clack symphony mingled with phones ringing and shouts. Someone always seemed to be yelling over the top of their pod to a colleague with a question, a coffee order, or to discuss interviews with celebrities and film stars. By osmosis I learned the scuttle on who was gay or cheating on a spouse, romances sparked, hearts broken. Everyone was blasé, but I buzzed, wanting to be one of them, gathering info then writing about it. 

     One morning I answered the phone and it was Ray Bradbury, the famous science fiction writer and one of my idols. He reviewed books for Art and they were friends. When Art told me that "Ray" disciplined himself to write every single day, I decided to challenge myself to do the same. Something, anything. Just sit down at my card table by the window that looked out at the ocean and begin typing. I would try to craft stories, even if no one would ever read them. 

     The Times Op-Ed page often published personal essays, so I began submitting 500-word observations about life and characters in Southern California. One by one they were rejected. A note saying, "Too much purple prose," suggested I delete flowery adjectives, and another comment, "Not for us, but keep trying" spurred me back to my little typewriter.
     "Okay," I thought. "I'll just keep trying."

From BLUE SKIES: ONE AUTHOR'S JOURNEY, to be published this Fall.

First day at the Los Angeles Times: memoir 16

Being able to work at one of the largest newspapers in the world was an extravagant thrill. From my journal of October 30, 1978:

     Well, 1st day at LA Times finally arrived! Book Review is on the 4th floor. Took elevator. Restroom stop. Rebrushed my hair, added lip gloss and checked for bad breath. Tried to act calm, collected, and like I'd always worked there. Me. Working at the Los Angeles Times. Only eight months ago I was moping around campus, feigning interest in the school newspaper and mundane classes. If I'd known then.
     Art Seidenbaum welcomed me with an invite into his cozy, cluttered office. He looked marvelous in a gray V-neck sweater, blue shirt and gray pants. Very literary, college professor-ish, a perfect outfit for the cold gray day outside. We chatted for a few moments then I was off to calling the bookstores for their bestsellers.
     I finally figured out how to wander around without appearing to be wandering. You grab a pencil, a stack of something or other like papers or manila folders and saunter with a deep-in-thought look on your face. Nobody would ever guess it was your first day.
     Because Art was the new editor, a New York publisher came with her photographer to learn about the review process. She wanted our small staff for some photos, so five of us gathered in front of the opened book cupboards to show off our stacks of hopefully-to-be-reviewed books.
     About that time Jack Smith wandered in.
     "My, but you're looking dapper today, Jack," Art said.
     "Yes, I have my new jacket on." He stood there looking amused and crisp in his green plaid coat and slim slacks.
     So that's Jack Smith! Finally, those grand columns of Paris, his Airedale and Baja vacations came to life. There really was a Jack Smith!
     He seemed quiet. A friendly quiet, though. He was thinner and smaller than I'd imagined. Appropriately gray for a grandfather. I liked him. I mean, I had always adored his writing and colorful adventures and perused his stories every day they appeared in the Times.
     But here he was, a real living fellow, all dressed up like he was going to take his wife out to lunch or go to a book store and sign autographs for Spend All Your Kisses, Mr. Smith. Art was kind enough to introduce us. I tried not to seem too eager when I shook his hand.
     "I'm happy to meet you, Mr. Smith." I had my pencil safely in the other hand and an armload of papers. I wondered if he knew the truth.
     He smiled. "Thank you."
     I know he'll never remember that moment in a million years and maybe he'll never know how dumb I felt or how thrilled.
     Funny. A spare moment in his life made a whole day out of mine.

From BLUE SKIES: ONE AUTHOR'S JOURNEY, to be published this Fall.

Book reviewer, LA Times: memoir 15

In 1977 the campus of Cal State Dominquez Hills was a quick drive from Manhattan Beach. In my quest to be a writer, I had signed up for a class taught by a familiar name: Art Seidenbaum. I felt I knew him from the years of reading his thrice-weekly column about culture and oddball life in the LA Times.

     He welcomed us students as if all were his friends, insisting we call him by his first name. Art was bald with great bushy eyebrows and a smoker's deep voice. His cheer and quick humor put us at ease. When it came time to read our assignments aloud some of us raised our hands only as far as a ribcage, but he spotted the shy ones and called on us. He was kind. At the end of the semester, he and his wife Patty hosted a party at his home in the hills of West Los Angeles. RSVP-ing was easy. His name and number were listed in the phone book.

reviewing book, age 2

     After Charlie Ferrell had hired me for his associate at Southern California Business, Art sent congratulations, which began our friendly correspondence lasting until his death, more than two decades. I thrilled to find a letter in my mailbox from The Times with "Seidenbaum" typed in the upper left-hand corner. When he was named Book Editor in 1978, I wrote to him and asked if he would please trust me to be one of his reviewers. I confessed that my only qualifications were that I loved to read and that in 6th grade I got an A+ for my report on Rascal by Sterling North.

     Two days later a padded envelope arrived with a book inside, and a brief note: write 250 words, pay will be $50 upon publication probably the following month. I about came unglued. I scoured the book, spent a couple days writing and rewriting. How could I possibly summarize in just 250 words? I counted each one and did not exceed the limit. It was my first review of what would be hundreds over the next twelve years.

     A few weeks later I answered the phone, "Southern California Business, may I help you?"

     "Kristiana?"

     I recognized Art's deep voice.

     "I need an assistant," he began.

     "Really?"

     "It's only part-time though, compiling the local bestseller list and some editing. Would that interest you?"

     "Yes!" It felt as though I shouted, but no one in the office looked up. Their heads were down working or they talked on phones.

     "Come for coffee and we'll talk."

     I grabbed my purse and drove the few blocks to The Times. Parked. Walked slowly through sidewalk crowds, staring up at the imposing stone building. Wow, I kept thinking.

     A guard in the lobby asked my name. My heart pounded, seriously it did, from nerves and excitement. I could hardly believe I was at the Los Angeles Times.

     Art took me upstairs to the cafeteria for coffee. I chatted his ear off I'm sure, so elated and now revved up on caffeine. "Thank you," I said several times.

     He had a bemused smile. "When can you start?"

From BLUE SKIES: ONE'S AUTHOR'S JOURNEY, to be published this Fall.

Assistant editor: memoir 14

When Charlie Ferrell became editor of Southern California Business, the weekly publication for the Los Angeles Area Chamber of Commerce, he hired me as his assistant. It was 1978. The first day of my first real job, I had no idea what to expect. 

     I drove my white Datsun 510 station wagon into downtown Los Angeles, the ashtray full and my eight-track tape blaring Fleetwood Mac. The Chamber had been started way back in 1888 by businessmen who wanted a deep-water harbor, and also to increase the population -- at the time 1,000 people were leaving the city each month. The Chamber succeeded, boy did they! Rush hour traffic now took nearly ninety minutes from the beach.

fave desk things: pens & dictionary

     Charlie had my desk ready with a typewriter, a stack of brown newsprint, pens, and a reporter's 4x8 spiral notebook. My first assignment was a board meeting in just three hours. I nearly panicked. I'd never done this before, written about corporate stuff. This wasn't going to be a parade with candy.

     The conference room was cavernous. At noon I settled into a back corner and scribbled notes while the suited businessmen and women ate lunch. Prone to daydreaming, and nervous I'd zone out, I taped the whole thing on my little Panasonic--for the first and last time! It meant returning to my desk and re-listening to tortuous minutes of a droning voice, and then typing the report and turning it in to Charlie. From then on I resolved to pay attention and try to get it right the first time. Alas, he rejected my story. I've saved it all these years, so here it is:

     Hanauer spilled his iced tea. His neck and ears turned red. What a mess. Then he stretched a stiff smile over his glaring teeth. The maitre d' scurried over and with the white linen napkins soaked up the spreading tea. The lady next to him scooted her chair from the table, dabbing at her dress. The maitre d' brought another glass of tea. And a bowl of yellow custard.

     Okay, obviously I didn't have a clue about writing a business story. How do you even start? I thumbed through some back issues of the SCB paper and found a familiar lead from my Reporting 101 class called, A Question. As in, "Why did the chairman yawn in the middle of his speech?" That helped a lot. Those first months of reporting events, I started many articles with A Question, but the main one pounding in my brain was, "How on earth am I going to pull this off?"
     I fumbled my way. In addition to my SCB salary, the Chamber began paying me $25 per news release. I was getting the hang of things.

From BLUE SKIES: ONE AUTHOR'S JOURNEY, to be published this Fall.