LEADERSHIP SUCKS
On occasion, I am tasked with running the news desk, a management moment I accept sullenly. It's not that I find the work too hard or too miserable; it's a job that has to be done and I'm someone who can do it. But being a substitute news editor is a little like being a substitute teacher: I am a steward of someone else's realm, bound by that person's rule.
What I do in my substitute role is sit at a humble work station and proof the pages in the A and B sections. On hectic nights, I might have to tell a layout editor that a neo-cubist page design is a really bad idea or re-order the story priorities if an elected official breaks the first rule of politics (at least for men): Don't get caught in bed with a live man or a dead woman. But mostly I just sit there, red pen in hand, hunting down and crushing the dangling participle and enforcing dictates that usually are not mine.
It's a far cry from youthful imaginings of how I would handle executive authority. I imagined that the trappings would be much cooler. I imagined I would have a large office, dark except for a piercing shaft of light that shone down on my stylized brushed-steel desk. Those who enter would see a large aquarium on their right and the back of my chair at the desk farther off. My voice would emerge from the chair, as I quoted some obscure 15th-century samurai poet. I would be saying something about killing your enemies lotus blossoms or something like that. Then I would swivel around in the chair, and the visitor would behold me in an impeccably tailored suit. I would be holding a rabbit. I would continue reciting the poem about destroying foes until I got to the aquarium. Then I would suddenly thrust home my point by thrusting the bunny in the aqauarium, which would begin churning with the carnivorous horror of piranhas coming off a strict diet. Suitably awed, the visitor would then beg to do my bidding.
Well, that didn't happen. So I take my disappointment out on my co-workers.
I usually begin the night by giving them a little motivational speech, something to get them to dig deep inside themselves for their best efforts. I tell them, "Now listen up, people. I am not your friend. I am a small man with a little bit of power, and you shall suffer accordingly. If you do well I shall claim credit for the inspirational idea and throw some small portion of glory your way. But if you do badly, I shall not take the fall with you. I shall hang you out to dry and point a long, accusing finger at you. It's up to you people; a little bit of glory or total culpability."
To further remind them of my authority, I go into the newsroom conference room to proof pages (see, I'm separating myself from them because they are unclean and beneath me). They must walk in to hand off their proofs facing me and -- this is very important -- bow and back away, never turning their back to me. It's a simple demand, but you would believe the caterwauling that goes up when I insist on it.
I have found that in management moments, you can't treat everybody the same. For instance, I work with several attractive young women who might be somewhat anxious about telling me of an error, given my early evening speech. If a man who fails me, I would simply rain blows upon him. But women must be treated differently. So I say to my female co-workers, "Look, it's natural to sometimes make mistakes; after all, we're only human. But hiding a mistake only makes it worse. So when you do make a mistake, don't be afraid to come to me and say, 'I've been bad, and I need a spanking.' And we can start fixing the problem." (Maybe I should have T-shirts printed up that have "Degrade me more" on the front.)
Sure, sometimes I guess I hit a nerve. I sometimes notice a saw coming up from the floor and cutting a circle around my chair, and I'm no stranger to fending off ACME robots -- but fortunately that company's shoddy workmanship serves my co-workers no better that it did Wile E. Coyote.
Is there something wrong with what I do? Uh, hell yes. But there is a motive to the madness. I have seen that the higher up you go, the bigger the headaches and the smaller the fun. Since I'm small on headaches and big on fun, I don't see me being an executive editor anytime soon. But should providence decide to punish me by giving me such a post, I have two words for you:
Show trials.
On occasion, I am tasked with running the news desk, a management moment I accept sullenly. It's not that I find the work too hard or too miserable; it's a job that has to be done and I'm someone who can do it. But being a substitute news editor is a little like being a substitute teacher: I am a steward of someone else's realm, bound by that person's rule.
What I do in my substitute role is sit at a humble work station and proof the pages in the A and B sections. On hectic nights, I might have to tell a layout editor that a neo-cubist page design is a really bad idea or re-order the story priorities if an elected official breaks the first rule of politics (at least for men): Don't get caught in bed with a live man or a dead woman. But mostly I just sit there, red pen in hand, hunting down and crushing the dangling participle and enforcing dictates that usually are not mine.
It's a far cry from youthful imaginings of how I would handle executive authority. I imagined that the trappings would be much cooler. I imagined I would have a large office, dark except for a piercing shaft of light that shone down on my stylized brushed-steel desk. Those who enter would see a large aquarium on their right and the back of my chair at the desk farther off. My voice would emerge from the chair, as I quoted some obscure 15th-century samurai poet. I would be saying something about killing your enemies lotus blossoms or something like that. Then I would swivel around in the chair, and the visitor would behold me in an impeccably tailored suit. I would be holding a rabbit. I would continue reciting the poem about destroying foes until I got to the aquarium. Then I would suddenly thrust home my point by thrusting the bunny in the aqauarium, which would begin churning with the carnivorous horror of piranhas coming off a strict diet. Suitably awed, the visitor would then beg to do my bidding.
Well, that didn't happen. So I take my disappointment out on my co-workers.
I usually begin the night by giving them a little motivational speech, something to get them to dig deep inside themselves for their best efforts. I tell them, "Now listen up, people. I am not your friend. I am a small man with a little bit of power, and you shall suffer accordingly. If you do well I shall claim credit for the inspirational idea and throw some small portion of glory your way. But if you do badly, I shall not take the fall with you. I shall hang you out to dry and point a long, accusing finger at you. It's up to you people; a little bit of glory or total culpability."
To further remind them of my authority, I go into the newsroom conference room to proof pages (see, I'm separating myself from them because they are unclean and beneath me). They must walk in to hand off their proofs facing me and -- this is very important -- bow and back away, never turning their back to me. It's a simple demand, but you would believe the caterwauling that goes up when I insist on it.
I have found that in management moments, you can't treat everybody the same. For instance, I work with several attractive young women who might be somewhat anxious about telling me of an error, given my early evening speech. If a man who fails me, I would simply rain blows upon him. But women must be treated differently. So I say to my female co-workers, "Look, it's natural to sometimes make mistakes; after all, we're only human. But hiding a mistake only makes it worse. So when you do make a mistake, don't be afraid to come to me and say, 'I've been bad, and I need a spanking.' And we can start fixing the problem." (Maybe I should have T-shirts printed up that have "Degrade me more" on the front.)
Sure, sometimes I guess I hit a nerve. I sometimes notice a saw coming up from the floor and cutting a circle around my chair, and I'm no stranger to fending off ACME robots -- but fortunately that company's shoddy workmanship serves my co-workers no better that it did Wile E. Coyote.
Is there something wrong with what I do? Uh, hell yes. But there is a motive to the madness. I have seen that the higher up you go, the bigger the headaches and the smaller the fun. Since I'm small on headaches and big on fun, I don't see me being an executive editor anytime soon. But should providence decide to punish me by giving me such a post, I have two words for you:
Show trials.
posted by John Parnell at 12:10 PM
1 Comments:
Flee! Flee young designers! Else rise up against the regime of substitute teacher...
Greetings for The Land of Houston Peach
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