Four days ago, in my “morning pages” (my non-blog writing), I riffed about how film critic Judith Crist, who I had the pleasure to study with many years ago in journalism school, told me to
limber up my prose style, to shake myself like a runner prepping for a race.

Yesterday, Judith Crist died. She had taught at Columbia for 50 years. Generations of students are mourning her death. She was a brilliant critic and a devoted teacher.

When I was accepted into her class, Personal and
Professional Style, I was shocked and delighted. If getting into J School was
the cake, getting into her class was the icing. “Crist’s class,” we called it.
And it was nerve wracking. Never before or since have I had such a reliable
stomachache. Every week, like clockwork, right before and during her
class.  And no wonder: She had no tolerance for inelegant, insincere, pedestrian writing — and she would let you know it. 

But oh, when she liked your stuff, well, there was nothing
better. And even more importantly, she  zeroed in on what was wrong with our prose (see above for what was wrong with mine!) and helped us start to fix it.

In Crist’s class, writing mattered.  In RW 1 and my other classes, reporting
ruled. Good leads, snappy kickers, clean copy — yes, they were taught and
idealized. But they were always secondary to the facts and quotations I managed
to assemble.

But in Crist’s class tone
and voice were the focus. We were writing editorials, for God’s sake, opinion pieces. We didn’t have to attribute everything. We could
loosen up a bit. Never let down our guard and never, ever, do sub-par
work, of course, but we could let our imaginations wander into metaphor. We could pull
up the rug and study what was swept underneath.

Decades later, I’m still writing, still pulling up the rug, still trying to limber up.  Thank you, Mrs. Crist. Rest in peace.