“This lead sux dog shit”. “This is the worst sentence I ever tried to read. WTF? I’m not even going to attempt to try and understand what you’re trying to say—rewrite.” These and other even more colorful remarks are some of the “feedback” written with a red PaperMate Flair Felt Pen on my article drafts (stories) when I was a combat correspondent at the Marine Corps Recruit Training Depot, Parris Island, SC. The author of this feedback? The Master Sergeant (aka Top) I worked for.
Many of my drafts had so many comments and copy-editing marks that it looked like the draft was used to clean up a murder scene. But I wasn’t the only recipient of this treatment. They were handed out equally to all of us writing for The Boot, Parris Island’s weekly newspaper.
Feedback was part of the job. As writers for The Boot, we were required to first have our drafts reviewed by a fellow writer, then by the Press Chief, and finally by Top. I took all the feedback in stride. Parris Island was my first duty assignment as a Combat Correspondent, having recently cross-trained from another job field. Most of my fellow Marines, while junior in rank, had more writing experience than I did. My goal at the time was to learn as much as I could from whomever I could.
Some of my fellow journalists did not take the Master Sergeant’s comments well. Many took them deeply personally. Some were even brought to tears (these are Marines, mind you). Others tried to challenge his comments or defend their work. That never went well. Beneath the crude comments there was often truth (not to mention years of experience)—an AP style reference or a grammar lesson delivered with ease and conviction.
So I quietly rewrote the dog shit lead, the worst sentence he ever tried to read, and untangled countless other sentences, paragraphs, and even entire stories because—I had to, and he was right. I’d try to cram too much into the lead, or I’d bury it. His comments forced me to examine my writing critically and objectively. The more feedback I got from Top and my fellow Marines, the better my writing became. Eventually, Top’s comments became fewer and fewer. But there were never compliments or kudos; the best you could hope for was an OK written on your story.
The more I write, the more I think about not just Top, but all the mentors I was fortunate to encounter as a young writer. Before Top, there was Ms. Jones at the Defense Information School—DINFOS. She taught a grammar refresher that was a prerequisite for the Basic Journalism Course. It was not uncommon for students to take it two or three times before passing. She was tough, but always available to help—if you asked for it.
Before Ms. Jones, there were the teachers I had, and there were the Reader’s Digest Word Power quizzes my grandfather used to do with me—all nudging me down a specific path. And every time I write a lead, I wonder if Top would approve, or if it “sux dog shit.”