Trip to editorial woodshed fosters career growth

I was young, ambitious, confident, and riding for a fall.

Right out of college, I was ecstatic to have landed a job as a writer. My employer was a quirky little publishing company of medical trade magazines, but I still felt vindicated: Contrary to popular wisdom, an English degree could be marketable.

I sat for my interview with my future boss, Carol. Forty-ish and elegantly dressed, Carol had fabulously polished nails, dazzling diamond jewelry, and a smoker's throaty voice.

Other than the nicotine addiction and the previous divorces, which she openly shared with me during my interview, I hoped to one day emulate her, or at least, her success as a publisher. She had started up this little company with a friend when both were divorced, single moms. Together they had flourished, and I was impressed.

Carol and I really clicked, and I expected to burnish my nascent career by writing for their newest magazine, which I assumed would also be a medical trade journal. Instead, I was gobsmacked to learn their new book was actually called "Hospital Gift Shop Management." This was my introduction to the vast universe of obscure trade magazines, which included thousands of oddball titles, like "Candy and Nut Wholesaler" and "Professional Carwashing Detailer."

Carol offered me what I considered a generous salary, considering my total lack of job experience other than editing a college newspaper.

I left the office thrilled at my good fortune, while wondering how I could answer the question, "And what do you do?" without inducing yawns or laughter among the questioners. After a number of blank stares by people who had asked where I worked, I simply said I wrote about retailing. This was true; I just didn't add that the retailing emphasized teddy bears, cute coffee mugs, baby bonnets, and how to retain an elderly, mostly volunteer staff.

Naturally, I met my share of odd characters at work. This included Janine, an outstanding proofreader who also had the maddening habit of trying to identify other women in the bathroom by sneaking a peek under the stall to identify the wearer's shoes.

Like other female employees, I cringed in anticipation of hearing, "Is that you, Judy?" when I once answered nature's call. We joked about buying Army boots that we'd put on before heading to the bathroom just to throw her off, but this excellent idea never came to fruition.

There was also the typesetter, Mac, a gruff Irishman with a big beer belly who smoked like a raging forest fire (this was back in the days when people were allowed to smoke in the workplace); Paul, an editor who sported an alarming Hitlerian-style mustache and who asked me out even though I was Jewish and he was married, and of course, the two publishers themselves.

Their manicurist came to the office every Wednesday at four, when they were not to be disturbed, but one of them would scream obscenities if she saw someone forgot to turn off a 60-watt light.

Quirky personalities aside, I knew I was fortunate to get paid to write, especially with Carol as my mentor. She taught me to add color and specificity to my writing, and I saw my articles become stronger and more lively each week.

In addition to honing my craft, I quickly dropped the snobbish attitude about the nature of hospital gift shops, which were fueled almost entirely by volunteers. Their hard work enabled hospitals to purchase special equipment that otherwise wasn't in the budget.

Eager to break into writing for the company's more "serious" magazines, I asked Carol for a chance to copy edit. I was supremely confident: After all, I had edited a student newspaper at UC Berkeley. She agreed, but a day after I turned in my first edit, Carol summoned me to her office and asked me to close the door.

I didn't have a good feeling about this.

"Judy, you're a good writer," Carol said, "but you'll never be an editor."

Never? I felt as if I had been socked very hard. Why had Carol turned on me like this? I thought she believed in me. She explained what was wrong with my edit, but I couldn't focus on her words. I could only hear her denying a talent that I knew I could cultivate, even if I didn't have it at the time.

A sense of determination surged up inside me. I couldn't wait to prove her wrong.

I asked her for another chance, which she eventually gave me. I worked hard to become a good editor, studying "before" and "after" copy of the more seasoned editors. Eventually Carol promoted me from staff writer to an associate editor, never again complaining about my poor editing skills.

After I left the company, I edited several magazines at various organizations. I loved the editing process, and knew that I had, indeed, become a good editor.

I think I grew to love this work even more, and appreciated my employers' and clients' satisfied reactions, because of that fateful day in Carol's office. I would never have imagined that I'd eventually appreciate her taking me out to the editorial woodshed, but I gained a great lesson from that momentary pain. In one fell swoop, my first boss helped me shed my youthful cockiness while lighting the proverbial fire under my feet to work harder than I might have otherwise.

I know this helped me fulfill more of my professional potential.

I suppose that sometimes, even an insult can be a good career builder.