How to Make Journalism Better? Find More Writers Like Molly Ivins
I was set to write my third installment in a series on the presidential candidacy of Sen. Barack Obama when I popped over to see what was on the Web site of the Dallas Morning News. Staring back was the headline: “Columnist, author Molly Ivins dies.”
It’s a good bet that many of you read her ideological rants each week; she was syndicated in more than 300 newspapers by the same company that has the rights to my column — Creators Syndicate.
Normally when someone dies, we mourn his or her passing. But why, especially when some folks had a zest for life? There was no need to be sad when Art Buchwald died. The man had an enormous appetite for life, and lived it to the fullest. The same goes for Ivins, 62, who had a smile that was as big as she was a woman, living in God’s country — Texas (she lived there for most of her life, but was born in California). That’s why I hope the powers-that-be at Creators remove the solemn photo of Ivins on their Web site and replace it with her smiling so large she appeared to relish the idea of tossing out a zinger at another hapless politician.
For a time, she and I were employed at the same newspaper, the Fort Worth Star-Telegram (I left in 1995; she in 2001). Our paths crossed infrequently because she was based out of her beloved Austin and I was ensconced in Fort Worth. But when she strolled through the newsroom, man, did the place light up with the energy of knowing that one of the legends of our business was in the building.
One day she told me the story of why she chose to write for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. The former star writer at the New York Times could have worked anywhere when the Dallas Times-Herald folded its tent, but here was this scrappy paper trying to recruit her. So our editor, Mike Blackman, decided to impress her. Mike jumped on his gorgeous motorcycle and rumbled down the I-35 from Fort Worth to Austin to meet with the great Molly Ivins. He walked in with his black boots, jeans and leather jacket, and she said that any editor that was so cool he would ride a motorcycle into town to recruit her; she had no choice but to work for!
That was vintage Ivins.
She was fearless, unflinching and used humor in her writing to decimate the folks she found wanting of imagination or creativity — mainly conservatives.
In a world where Republicans and conservatives have nearly ruled America for the last 27 years — heck, in Texas they hold all statewide offices — Ivins was the rare voice in the wilderness that refused to take a step back.
She would eviscerate radio big mouth Rush Limbaugh; tell us all how dumb George W. Bush was when he was governor of Texas — she nicknamed him “Shrub” — and even dish on those Democrats she felt were in need of political Viagra.
But it was her humor that was amazing, even as she valiantly fought fight after fight with breast cancer, to which she succumbed after a third diagnosis. Ivins had a writing style that was so amazing she could leave you in awe with her mastery of the written word. Linda Ellerbee has always been my favorite broadcast writer; Ivins my favorite in print.
Today, meanness seems to be the order of the day when we read columns. Ivins could hit you below the belt, but you wouldn’t notice because you would be laughing so hard.
It takes a special knack to be able to turn a phrase at the right time regarding the right person, but it’s also about having a style that works. For Ivins, it didn’t fit at the Times, which she felt was too stodgy. And frankly, that was their loss.
Newspapers should stop stifling young voices like Ivins and encourage them to be different. We shouldn’t abide by a cookie-cutter approach when readers are looking for something unique and different. Thank God Ivins didn’t pack up her bags and run off to another profession because she ran into some knucklehead editor who was unwilling to recognize the brilliance sitting before him. If so, journalism would have lost a special lady, and readers would have been deprived of reading a fantastic wordsmith who could make you curse or shout “Amen!”
Maybe at the same time.
