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She Hated Adverbs

And she didn't suffer fools gladly.

I knew Judith Moore only through her voice: a baritone with a slight Southern accent. And I knew her writing.

The first time I spoke to Judith -- in early 1997 -- she called me because she was reviewing my second novel, which she liked enough that she asked me, a month or so later, if I would be interested in writing for the Reader. (My book was about scientists in a rock band in New York City.) I started with the Reader's "event highlight" and moved on to music.

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Judith liked the story I had on my website about my pet pig Sporky. I had tried to sell this to the Reader six years before, but not knowing much about getting published, I had sent it to a Reader writer who sent me back a letter that read, "There is no way my boss would ever run a story about someone's pet." This was handwritten in thick felt pen; the two-inch-high letters took the entire eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch page. "Ever" was underlined.

Six years later, however, Judith was asking me if the Reader could publish my Sporky story. I said of course, but she could tell there was something hesitant in my voice. She asked, "You sent this to us before, didn't you?" I admitted I had and told her about the letter. Judith sighed a deep, drawling sigh. She even apologized, though she hadn't known anything about it. She didn't suffer fools gladly, and she hated adverbs. That was the first instruction that I remember her telling me: get rid of them. I thought it seemed severe, but the Reader paid well, so what did I care about words ending in "-ly"?

When I moved to the Bay Area two years ago, after working for the Reader nearly eight years -- seven and a half as the music editor -- I was looking forward to meeting Judith and taking her to lunch in Berkeley, where she lived. I wanted to thank her for giving me a career in journalism. (Makes me cry for a moment as I write this because it's so true.)

But she declined. I didn't know she was sick. I was shocked when I saw the obituary on the front of the "Datebook" section of the San Francisco Chronicle. (They ran another long one a few days later by a different writer.) Reading the eulogies, I learned about a woman I had never met, a woman who had made me a pithier writer. Now that I've been an editor and been trained in the constant search for redundancy, I wish I could go back and reedit my novels. Instead, I'm working on a new one and trying to make it lean. I would have welcomed Judith's input.

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I knew Judith Moore only through her voice: a baritone with a slight Southern accent. And I knew her writing.

The first time I spoke to Judith -- in early 1997 -- she called me because she was reviewing my second novel, which she liked enough that she asked me, a month or so later, if I would be interested in writing for the Reader. (My book was about scientists in a rock band in New York City.) I started with the Reader's "event highlight" and moved on to music.

Sponsored
Sponsored

Judith liked the story I had on my website about my pet pig Sporky. I had tried to sell this to the Reader six years before, but not knowing much about getting published, I had sent it to a Reader writer who sent me back a letter that read, "There is no way my boss would ever run a story about someone's pet." This was handwritten in thick felt pen; the two-inch-high letters took the entire eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch page. "Ever" was underlined.

Six years later, however, Judith was asking me if the Reader could publish my Sporky story. I said of course, but she could tell there was something hesitant in my voice. She asked, "You sent this to us before, didn't you?" I admitted I had and told her about the letter. Judith sighed a deep, drawling sigh. She even apologized, though she hadn't known anything about it. She didn't suffer fools gladly, and she hated adverbs. That was the first instruction that I remember her telling me: get rid of them. I thought it seemed severe, but the Reader paid well, so what did I care about words ending in "-ly"?

When I moved to the Bay Area two years ago, after working for the Reader nearly eight years -- seven and a half as the music editor -- I was looking forward to meeting Judith and taking her to lunch in Berkeley, where she lived. I wanted to thank her for giving me a career in journalism. (Makes me cry for a moment as I write this because it's so true.)

But she declined. I didn't know she was sick. I was shocked when I saw the obituary on the front of the "Datebook" section of the San Francisco Chronicle. (They ran another long one a few days later by a different writer.) Reading the eulogies, I learned about a woman I had never met, a woman who had made me a pithier writer. Now that I've been an editor and been trained in the constant search for redundancy, I wish I could go back and reedit my novels. Instead, I'm working on a new one and trying to make it lean. I would have welcomed Judith's input.

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The latest copy of the Reader

Please enjoy this clickable Reader flipbook. Linked text and ads are flash-highlighted in blue for your convenience. To enhance your viewing, please open full screen mode by clicking the icon on the far right of the black flipbook toolbar.

Here's something you might be interested in.
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