My Life With All Those Damn Editors

By Tom Shales

People sometimes told me they couldn’t imagine the Washington Post’s Style section without me, which was flattering in a way, but what came to pass was considerably more surprising: the Washington Post without the Washington Post. Yes, the paper still exists and appears daily, but its golden age fades further and further into the mists of memory.

Another thing I used to hear about me and the Post, where I spent roughly 39 varyingly rewarding years, most of those as TV critic, was that my pristine copy veritably flew out of my typewriter (later the PC) and directly into the newspaper with nary so much as a glance from an editor. That is not at all true. Some pieces were edited lightly and some were mutilated but all passed before the eyes of several editors, including the much-maligned Style copy desk.

I regularly denounced editors as a species, insulting them with such disparagements as, “Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach; those who can’t even teach, edit.”  Editors, I liked to say, were all failed writers, and bitter about it, but that kind of logic produces such similarly flawed thoughts as critics are all failed performers or failed somethings. Having now reached an age of reason, that little lull just before senility, I do feel inclined to apologize for those blanket indictments of all editors.

I do recall sometimes feeling frustrated in my kill-the-editor campaign by the fact that every time I wanted to take a flame thrower to the copy desk, one of its tireless drones would find a hideous error I’d made in a story and save my ass.  I always tried to thank the editor in question for what she or he had so beneficently done.

Occasions for gratitude to editors ended up becoming fairly numerous. It was a sometime copy editor, Reid Beddow, since deceased, who “moved” my review of Dan Rather reporting from Afghanistan for “60 Minutes” in 1980 and, noting I’d compared Rather in his disguise as looking like an extra out of Gunga Din, came up with the best headline that ever graced a Shales piece: “Gunga Dan.”

The nickname was quoted frequently and usually was attributed to me and my marvelous cleverness. I would apologize to Reid, who couldn’t have been nicer about it—in fact, few people I’ve known in journalism were nicer, period.  He smiled and was very decent about it. The glory, such as it was, still went to the guy with the byline.

Reid, again, thank you.


But this was intended as a piece about “Horrible Editors I Have Known.” Believe me, there have been plenty. The worst were writers taking sabbaticals from writing. You’d think they’d be the most sympathetic to another writer’s plights, but you’d be wrong. Late in my Post years, I wrote a very critical piece about the hugely fashionable Christiane Amanpour, an international gadfly who in moving from CNN to the bigger bucks of ABC News landed the plum position of hosting the Sunday-morning panel show “This Week,” which Roone Arledge had originally created as a vehicle for the great David Brinkley.

In the piece, I accused Ms. Amanpour of being distressingly anti-Israel in her reporting from the Mideast and cited instances of others making the same charge. The former reporter who edited my review declared himself an expert on the region and said it was all very complex and pity the poor Palestinians and so on. Then he removed from the piece every example but one of Amanpour being criticized for alleged bias.

Never mind whether Ms. Amanpour was totally unbiased or slightly biased or the most biased Israel-basher in history; the point was that by gutting the story of those references, I was made to look like the only person who ever raised the issue. Out came jackals in droves to carp and trounce—“and he only had one example!” The main point of the piece did survive, which was that Amanpour was the wrong person for this job, something she confirmed in her debut broadcast and in every subsequent show she hosted (one of her refinements to the format was to jettison the weekly roundtable of pundits, George F. Will et al, which had always been a highlight of the program, and thus create more air space for herself).

It took nearly two years, and a plunge in “This Week’s” ratings, for ABC News executives to swallow their pride and throw her off the show. She was replaced by the eminently qualified George Stephanopoulos, still hosting it today.


In my first few years on the staff of the Style section in the early ‘70s, several editors stopped me in the halls to say they were happy to have helped “discover” me. Ahem. One edited several of my longer pieces, one of which was the first major interview with a promising new singing star, Bette Midler.  She’d previously been written about in publications like the Village Voice and was ready to break into the mainstream in a big, big way. I used to see her in New York at a club called Upstairs at the Downstairs (or was it the other way around) where she did electrifying sets with a small trio led by pianist Barry Manilow.

The editor bludgeoned the bejesus out of my story, reducing it to one-third its original length, because, she said, this Bette Midler was obviously a freak and would never amount to crap. Furthermore, by stating in the piece that Midler had performed frequently at New York’s Continental Baths, an establishment with a predominantly “gay” clientele, I was opening up the Post to “a million-dollar lawsuit.” It didn’t seem to impress this editor that the gayness of the Continental Baths was, if a secret, the worst-kept one in the world.

It was a long time ago, yes, and the word gay was hardly tossed around as glibly as it is now; if a President of the United States then had alluded in a televised speech to same-sex marriages, he would have been derided as a wild-eyed loony. Even so, the editor’s reaction was patently absurd.  But she was adamant, and I was advised not to appeal the “ruling” to Ben Bradlee or Howard Simons, the Post’s top editors, because they were, uh, very busy. So the piece was butchered and I, not the editor, looked like an idiot for referring to the Continental Baths as “colorful” or some other euphemism.

The editor later “came out” as a lesbian.


Ideally, writers in Style had regular assignment editors with whom they worked and with whom they could develop a mutual understanding that would lessen the need for screaming matches. A critic obviously has a great deal of leeway in stating opinions and doesn’t have to sneak them into a piece as a reporter might try to do. For several what seemed like pleasant years, I was usually edited by a youngish man with whom I shared a variety of interests. That meant we could joke about the same things and he would come up with suitable, as opposed to idiotic, suggestions for things I couldn’t or shouldn’t say in a newspaper.

It seemed like a pretty good fit, and the editor appeared comfortable with the fact that my stories often came in perilously close to, or perilously after, the 6 o’clock deadline (which got earlier and earlier as the wonders of technology seeped into the newsroom). It seemed a minor sin because my pieces usually did not require a heavy edit.

I have forgotten now who broke the news to me, but after that editor had left the Post and I had been bounced around among others, someone gave me the 4-1-1:  My friend the editor had HATED working with me. I was close to crushed. I was accustomed to being disliked, but not by someone I considered a kindred spirit and with whom I’d had a pleasant working relationship.

There were the occasional signs. The first time I had pneumonia (oh yes, I have suffered!), doctors feared it was some nasty new strain and I was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit at Sibley, a great DC hospital.  One day a delegation from Style appeared and, the greater danger having passed, filed into my room for a goodwill visit. It was so very kind of all of them. Strangely, though, “my” editor hung back, almost hidden behind the others.

It occurred to me much later that, while fellow writers and a few editors were wishing me well and making the kind of irreverent jokes that journalists love to make, my editor was back there barely visible thinking to himself, “The miserable fat son-of-a-bitch!  I hope he never comes out of here alive.”  Damn.


But I was lucky—and I thank God—to have had a few wonderful editors, brilliant editors, instructive and inspiring editors, as well as the occasional two-timing, narrow-minded backstabber.  Thank you to the great editors—so great that if any of them read this, they will know that I mean them.


  1. Shales was one of those writers the Post used to have who used to make dropping a quarter every day such a no-brainer. He never steered my viewing choices one way or another, but my college buddies and I probably never missed a column.

    Once upon a time, I bought a book of his old columns in a used book store. As much as I like and liked him, I was a little embarrassed for the guy to learn that he had been doing the same writing since the days of Mork & Mindy or whatever. TV has not always been a hefty enough medium for much critical thought, and there’s not much reason to read reviews of yesterday’s lame sitcoms, no matter how witty the review is.

    But, he’s got a gift. Here he is again – writing about a topic I have no interest in, but he’s got the knack for making you wanna get to the next sentence and the next paragraph and so on.

    By coincidence, I bought a copy of the paper today at the coffee shop… I’d wrung out every drop of content by the time my order was ready. There was a buck wasted.

  2. You were the best, Shales! And Carmody and Vanocur were pretty great as well.
    Those were the days.

  3. Parts of the article could use some better line editing. For instance, the essay contains a dangler: “the point was that by gutting the story of those references, I was made to look like the only person who ever raised the issue.” One compound adjective reads awkwardly (“For several what seemed like pleasant years”). And I found the following clause puzzling: “he would come up with suitable, as opposed to idiotic, suggestions for things I couldn’t or shouldn’t say in a newspaper.” I briefly wondered why the editor suggested material not suitable for print. Finally, this run-on sentence scored a minus 4 on the Flesch-Kincaid readability scale: “Late in my Post years, I wrote a very critical piece about the hugely fashionable Christiane Amanpour, an international gadfly who in moving from CNN to the bigger bucks of ABC News landed the plum position of hosting the Sunday-morning panel show ‘This Week,’ which Roone Arledge had originally created as a vehicle for the great David Brinkley.” (On this scale, easy-to-read material scores 90–100, and “legalese can get a score below 10.”) Maybe the line editor was afraid to touch the essay, for fear of appearing in the next installment.

  4. the love hate relationship between reporters and editors is perilous yes

  5. Christian Williams says

    This is the Post-apocalypic Shales talking. I was his editor the first ten years. I discovered him by pushing out of the way all the other people who were discovering him–and by advocating putting him on staff, instead of paying him $25 a shot to review the Ice Capades. This was not an unhill struggle, as his lead for the four inches allotted for that coverage was, “Something there is that loves a capade,” period new graf. Shales was the easiest person to work with I ever met, turned in copy that was essentially perfect at about 120 words a minute, and on his 30th birthday the Style section threw him an informal office party featuring the disgusting beverage Tab, which he consumed like the rest of us did gin. His humor was usually good, he suffered fools with a roll of the eyes, and he quite seemed to enjoy his growing reputation as as a critic and, when politics disrobed on television, something of an insightful pundit. None of this would be denied by anybody. Subsequent events, well, I wasn’t there. But I do think his overall experience with The Washington Post was probably not exactly like that of Joan of Arc.

    • Jack Limpert says

      Here’s a mini-bio of Christian Williams, one of the early stars at Style who went on to fame and fortune in LA:

      Christian Williams was an editor and reporter for The Washington Post before moving west to write for “Hill Street Blues” in 1987. With David Milch he created the series “Capital News” for ABC, and for Universal Studios the phenomenal worldwide success “Hercules”. After writing and producing numerous one-hour dramas, he retired from television as co-executive producer of HBO’s celebrated “Six Feet Under.” He is an essayist, commentator and editor of the quarterly Journal of Town Hall Los Angeles. A private pilot and former champion dinghy racer, Williams is the author of “Lead, Follow or Get Out of the Way” (Times Books), a biography of Ted Turner. He has four children and lives in Pacific Palisades with his wife, the former Tracy Olmstead.

  6. Jack, you really should monetize your blog. ACH

  7. Ted Tegenkamp says

    I know this is about Mr. Shales’ days at the POST, but I still miss his movie reviews he used to do on MORNING EDITION. The more he hated the movie, the more I loved his review. His scathing comments, delivered in his dry manner, made for many a fun Friday..

  8. Hank Plante says

    Nice to see a plug for Reid Beddow, who was a dear friend ages ago, and one of the funniest people in Washington. As a former TV reporter for CBS stations on the West Coast for three decades, I understand Tom Shales’ desire to work less, but I miss his writing.

  9. stan9161130 says

    Tom Shales is a writer I admired. He first came to my notice was his piece on Errol Flynn–The Swashbuckling Life of Errol Flynn in 2005. I am a fan of Errol. Thus I read everything about him. With close to 1000 words, Tom grasps the essence of who Errol was and never yields to those cliches that have been attached to Flynn. To see Flynn in a fresh and fair light is not easy considering his image has been contaminated with myths, rumors and speculations. Tom thus taught me a lesson–to be a good writer one first has to be able to grasp the subject accurately. Otherwise, the best craft can do is merely misleading the readers. Afterwards, I checked Tom’s background realizing he is the winner of Pulitzer Prize for Criticism in 1988. I was not surprised.


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