The Obit Writer

My first job out of college was a writing job. And it wasn’t a glamorous one. I didn’t hunch over manuscripts within the great walls of Random House or even fetch coffee for Tina Brown. No, nothing like that. For my first writing job I wrote obituaries during the 7 to midnight shift at the Springfield Union-News.

These weren’t New York Times-caliber obituaries, mind you. They were formulaic, typed with the phone receiver hooked between my ear and shoulder as the droll voice of Samson & Sons funeral director ticked off a lifetime of highlights in three minutes flat. In the two years I wrote obituaries I never once wrote about anyone even mildly famous. Instead it was insurance salesmen and math professors, plumbers and housewives.

One night the phone rang as I munched Doritos at my desk, and before the receiver even reached my ear, I heard Arthur the funeral director ranting on the line. Turns out an obit had run that morning with a major typo, and the family of the 82-year-old deceased gentleman was less than pleased.

“Who wrote the O’Rourke obit that ran in today’s paper?” Arthur bellowed.

“Uh, I think that one was me. Yeah, me…I wrote that one,” I admitted, knowing full-well I was about to walk into something ugly.

“Look at it again – get out today’s paper and look at it again,” fumed Arthur. “James O’Rourke – look at it and tell me if you notice anything wrong with it! I'll wait until you figure it out.”

Arthur sat on the other end of the line while I turned pages. I heard him breathless and irate as I read all the way through James O’Rourke’s obit until I got to the last sentence of the last paragraph, where I read this:

In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to the Open Panty.

That’s right: panty, not pantry. Donations may be made to the Open Panty, read the obituary of dear James.

My feet began to sweat. My hands began to sweat. My scalp began to sweat.

I stuttered an apology to the funeral director, and then I made the long walk over to my editor's desk with the paper in hand. That editor then informed Larry, the Editor in Chief, who had just received a phone call from the still-ranting Arthur. Larry then called me into his office, where I proceeded to sputter more apologies through much weeping and gnashing of teeth.

Fists full of wadded Kleenex, I returned to my desk, and when my shift ended at midnight I ran home with my tail between my legs. I thought seriously about not returning to work the next day. After all, the pure humiliation alone was reason enough to quit. Shame hung over my head like a noxious cloud.

But I did go back, and the next night and for weeks to follow I was the object of much good-natured ribbing and snickering in the newsroom. And can you blame them, really? After reporting school board meetings and traffic accidents day in and day out, a little obit porn goes a long way.

So there’s a moral to the Open Panty story, some lessons to be learned. One: never rely on spell check or even the skills of a good copy editor. And two: No matter what failures you endure (read: harsh criticism, rejection letters, bad reviews, humiliating mistakes), it's all part of the process.

You won't learn a thing if you don't get back in the chair and put your fingers to the keyboard again the next day. And besides, a bad experience might just end up a good story.

All you writers out there: have you ever penned a really bad typo? Or suffered a really embarrassing professional moment that had you wishing the radiator vent would suck you right out of the office and into oblivion?