NEWS VALUES
The newspaper man is compelled, as the price of success in
his calling, and often through severe experience, to learn
that only that which is true is “news.” There is a popular
impression that all is grist that comes to the newspaper mill,
and that everything brought into the office is published. The
fact is that the hardest task of newspaper work is to sift the
truth out of the masses of falsehood offered daily.... Daily
newspaper workers have neither time nor need to fabricate
falsehoods for public deception. Their time and their energies
are too fully engaged in trying to winnow out the truth from
the ignorant or willful distortions of it with which they have
to deal daily. Often the falsehoods are unintentional, and
arise from the fact that few people are gifted with ability
to tell the exact truth, and nothing else, about what they
have seen or heard. But they have also to deal with masses
of downright lies, inspired by interest or malice.--From an
editorial in the Chicago _Inter-Ocean_.
The foregoing chapters have dealt with news writing in its general
aspects. This and succeeding chapters will be devoted to the more
technical phases of the subject.
It is not the purpose here to discuss in detail methods of gathering
news, but to tell how to write news. The reporter, when he sits down to
his story, is assumed to be in possession of the facts. The problem
then is how to put those facts together most effectively. But since
news writing presupposes news gathering, a general knowledge of the
reporter’s work and of what is implied by the term “news” is essential
to a clear understanding of the technical side of the story.
THE REPORTER
What the eyes are to the body the reporter is to his paper and to the
public that reads it. His work is the foundation of modern newspaper
making. Editorial comment illuminates the news, make-up and headlines
aid in its attractive presentation but after all the story is the main
thing. It is for the story that all other features of the newspaper
exist.
No matter what branch of newspaper work one may eventually enter,
training gained as a reporter will be invaluable. The men who reach
executive positions in a newspaper office without having served a
reporter’s apprenticeship are rare exceptions. Practically all who have
attained high rank in journalism began work as gatherers of news. They
learned first to see news and to estimate its values.
A reporter may be able to see news without being able to write a good
story, but the opposite seldom holds good. Certainly the best news
writers are those who have learned, as reporters, what news is. The
city editor of a metropolitan newspaper holds his position largely by
virtue of his ability to pass quick and accurate judgment on the news
value of a story. He has a “nose for news” that enables him to discard
the trivial in the grist of the day’s happenings for the vital and
interesting. It is this ability that the reporter must cultivate by
every means in his power.
WHAT IS NEWS?
News has been roughly defined as that which interests people. But that
definition is too general. A book or a sermon or a play may interest
people, but in themselves they are not news. The fact, however, that
a book has been published or a sermon preached or a play produced, is
news, if that fact has an element of public interest.
The importance of a story in the eyes of the editor depends on one
or more of several considerations--on the property involved, as in
a fire or an earthquake; on the number and the prominence of the
persons concerned; on the distance of the happening from the place
of publication; on the timeliness of the story; on the element of
human interest. This list is not exhaustive; local and temporary
reasons often have weight in the editor’s judgment of a given story.
To illustrate, suppose a newspaper is waging a crusade against
grade crossings in its city. The story of a grade crossing accident
immediately assumes an importance for that newspaper beyond its
ordinary news value. Before the crusade was started the story might
have been told in a paragraph; now it is allowed to run at length.
THE NEWSPAPER’S PROBLEM
Remember, in forming your estimate of the news value of a story, that
the newspaper is read by men and women of all classes--by the banker
and his stenographer, the day laborer and the college professor. A
story is valuable as news in proportion to the number of persons it
interests. The account of a great disaster, like the San Francisco
earthquake and fire, appeals to all readers. It is the big news of
the day, taking precedence over all other stories in the make-up of
the paper. News of an increase in the cost of some necessary article
of food is valuable because of the vast number of persons it affects.
So with the story of a national election, a great labor strike or a
declaration of war. These are the exceptional stories whose importance
as news is as obvious to one unskilled in newspaper making as to the
trained editor.
But what of the more commonplace happenings of the day? The problem
that confronts the editor daily is to make a paper that will appeal to
as many readers as possible. The man who asks a newspaper to print, as
news, a long dissertation on recent discoveries in Asia Minor mistakes
the purpose of daily journalism. Such an article might interest other
men engaged in making similar discoveries, but it would be passed over
by the vast majority of readers.
Newspapers are often charged with pandering to the sensational. Why,
it is asked, do they print the story of a murder on the first page,
while general religious news is published in a separate department, if
published at all? The shop window of the merchant furnishes the answer:
the merchant, like the newspaper, puts his most alluring wares in
front. The display in both cases is based on a sound knowledge of human
nature. What do people talk about in the evening? On his answer to that
question the editor’s choice of stories largely depends. Mrs. Jones,
talking to Mrs. Smith, tells first about the elopement of a neighbor’s
daughter. Not until that is disposed of does she comment on last
Sunday’s sermon.
Newspapers formerly were made on the assumption that men were the only
readers. Now they are made with the tastes of women ever in mind. The
evening newspaper, especially, is edited for the women, on the theory
that it is taken home in the evening, while the morning newspaper is
taken out of the home by the man going to work.
The newspaper is a business enterprise. In order to live it must
get advertising. To get advertising it must have circulation and to
get circulation it must interest its readers. It can not do this by
shooting continually over the heads of its readers. But, while the
newspaper reflects public taste, it is generally a little better than
public taste. Certain classes of news are suppressed and others are
carefully edited. What is done with news on the border line depends on
the individual policy of the paper.
KINDS OF STORIES
While the variety of news is infinite and no hard-and-fast
classification can be attempted, news stories may be roughly grouped in
three large divisions:
1. The story based on a recent happening of more or less importance
in itself, as a fire or a business transaction, told without attempt
at embellishment. This may be called the plain news story. It is the
primary form of news writing. Clearness and conciseness are its first
requisites.
2. The story called by the newspaper man a feature or a human-interest
story. Into this class falls practically all news writing--except that
set aside in departments--which does not fit in the preceding group.
Some writers perhaps would make a distinction between “feature” and
“human-interest” as applied to news, but since the terms are often
used interchangeably, it has seemed simpler to include them under one
head. A feature story, then, adopting this as a general term, is a
story based on something odd or unusual, humorous or pathetic. Such
a story often depends more on the manner of the telling than on what
is told. “Human-interest” narrows the definition to the story that
appeals to the emotions by its humor or pathos. Stripped to the bare
facts, a human-interest story may be without news value; but told with
the keen sympathy that comes of accurate observation and a knowledge
of human nature it may have an even greater value, that of giving the
reader a clearer insight into the real life about him. Feature stories
concerning odd or unusual or grotesque things, such as the man with
the longest beard in the world or the boy who builds an airship in his
back yard, may be only a few lines in length or they may be developed
into page Sunday articles. A study of the magazine and feature pages of
any metropolitan daily paper will show the possibilities of this kind
of story. Almost any subject may be made into a feature story if the
writer has the gift of originality.
3. Department or classified news. Under this head come stories that
are grouped by the newspaper in separate departments, as sporting
news, market reports and society notes. The extent to which news is
classified varies widely with different newspapers. Some include only
a few broad departments, while others classify news on many subjects,
as schools and colleges, genealogy, women’s clubs, etc. When, however,
a department story becomes of general interest, it is taken out of its
department and placed in the general news columns. This may be done,
for example, with the story of a world’s championship baseball game or
of a sudden break in the stock market.
It must be understood that this grouping is subject to many variations.
There is often an overlapping of the three kinds of stories described.
The nature of news, based as it is on the doings of people, makes it
impossible for one to put a finger on a story and say: This falls under
Section A and is written according to Rule Blank. The classification is
suggested only as a guide in the study of news writing.
The interview, one of the most important features of the modern
newspaper, is not here listed as a distinct kind of story. It may
either form an essential part of a story or be itself a news story of
any of the types mentioned.
SUGGESTIONS FOR HOME OR CLASS-ROOM STUDY
I. Tell how the following plain news story could be developed into a
feature story of a column or more:
BOSTON, Nov. 12.--The third new star to be discovered at the
Harvard College Observatory in the last six weeks was announced
to-night by Professor Edward C. Pickering. Miss A. J. Gannon of
the observatory staff found the star in an examination of old
photographic plates taken August 10, 1899. It appears in the
constellation sagittarius from that date until October, 1901.
II. Concise, well-told story of a humorous incident, used by the St.
Louis _Post-Dispatch_ as a “filler” on Page 1. Note that the story is
not clogged with irrelevant police data:
Two burglars enjoyed a laugh, and a saloon keeper’s money
was saved by the wit of Joe Johnson, a negro porter, early
Wednesday. The burglars entered Edward Krenninghaus’ saloon at
3948 Easton avenue, and finding the porter asleep in the back
room awakened him.
“Where’s the boss’ money?” asked one of the burglars as he
held a revolver to Johnson’s head. “Sakes alive,” the porter
stuttered. “If the boss kept his money here he wouldn’t let me
sleep in the place.” The burglars laughed heartily and departed.
III. The following story--a mother’s account of the death of her
son--is a fine example of the best type of human-interest story. It was
published in the New York _Sun_ (morning), often referred to as the
“newspaper man’s newspaper” because of the high standard of writing
that it maintains. “Study the _Sun’s_ style” is the advice given to
reporters in many newspaper offices. The story here reproduced is by
Frank Ward O’Malley. It was reprinted in the _Outlook_ of November 9,
1907:
Mrs. Catherine Sheehan stood in the darkened parlor of her home
at 361 West Fifteenth street late yesterday afternoon, and
told her version of the murder of her son Gene, the youthful
policeman whom a thug named Billy Morley shot in the forehead,
down under the Chatham Square elevated station early yesterday
morning. Gene’s mother was thankful that her boy hadn’t killed
Billy Morley before he died, “because,” she said, “I can say
honestly, even now, that I’d rather have Gene’s dead body
brought home to me, as it will be to-night, than to have him
come to me and say, ‘Mother, I had to kill a man this morning.’
“God comfort the poor wretch that killed the boy,” the mother
went on, “because he is more unhappy to-night than we are here.
Maybe he was weak-minded through drink. He couldn’t have known
Gene or he wouldn’t have killed him. Did they tell you at the
Oak Street Station that the other policemen called Gene Happy
Sheehan? Anything they told you about him is true, because no
one would lie about him. He was always happy, and he was a
fine-looking young man, and he always had to duck his helmet
when he walked under the gas fixture in the hall, as he went
out the door.
“He was doing dance steps on the floor of the basement, after
his dinner yesterday noon, for the girls--his sisters, I
mean--and he stopped of a sudden when he saw the clock and
picked up his helmet. Out on the street he made pretend to
arrest a little boy he knows, who was standing there--to see
Gene come out, I suppose--and when the little lad ran away
laughing, I called out, ‘You couldn’t catch Willie, Gene;
you’re getting fat.’
“‘Yes, and old, mammy,’ he said, him who is--who was--only
twenty-six--‘so fat,’ he said, ‘that I’m getting a new dress
coat that’ll make you proud when you see me in it, mammy.’ And
he went over Fifteenth street whistling a tune and slapping his
leg with a folded newspaper. And he hasn’t come back again.
“But I saw him once after that, thank God, before he was shot.
It’s strange, isn’t it, that I hunted him up on his beat late
yesterday afternoon for the first time in my life? I never go
around where my children are working or studying--one I sent
through college with what I earned at dressmaking, and some
other little money I had, and he’s now a teacher; and the
youngest I have at college now. I don’t mean that their father
wouldn’t send them if he could, but he’s an invalid, although
he’s got a position lately that isn’t too hard for him. I got
Gene prepared for college, too, but he wanted to go right into
an office in Wall street. I got him in there, but it was too
quiet and tame for him, Lord have mercy on his soul; and then,
two years ago, he wanted to go on the police force, and he went.
“After he went down the street yesterday I found a little book
on a chair, a little list of the streets or something, that
Gene had forgot. I knew how particular they are about such
things, and I didn’t want the boy to get in trouble, and so I
threw on a shawl and walked over through Chambers street toward
the river to find him. He was standing on a corner some place
down there near the bridge clapping time with his hands for a
little newsy that was dancing; but he stopped clapping, struck,
Gene did, when he saw me. He laughed when I handed him the
little book and told that was why I’d searched for him, patting
me on the shoulder when he laughed--patting me on the shoulder.
“‘It’s a bad place for you here, Gene,’ I said. ‘Then it must
be bad for you, too, mammy,’ said he; and as he walked to the
end of his beat with me--it was dark then--he said, ‘They’re
lots of crooks here, mother, and they know and hate me and
they’re afraid of me’--proud, he said it--‘but maybe they’ll
get me some night.’ He patted me on the back and turned and
walked east toward his death. Wasn’t it strange that Gene said
that?
“You know how he was killed, of course, and how--Now let me
talk about it, children, if I want to. I promised you, didn’t
I, that I wouldn’t cry any more or carry on? Well, it was five
o’clock this morning when a boy rang the bell here at the house
and I looked out the window and said, ‘Is Gene dead?’ ‘No,
ma’am,’ answered the lad, ‘but they told me to tell you he was
hurt in a fire and is in the hospital.’ Jerry, my other boy,
had opened the door for the lad and was talking to him while
I dressed a bit. And then I walked down stairs and saw Jerry
standing silent under the gaslight, and I said again, ‘Jerry,
is Gene dead?’ And he said ‘Yes,’ and he went out.
“After a while I went down to the Oak Street Station myself,
because I couldn’t wait for Jerry to come back. The policemen
all stopped talking when I came in, and then one of them told
me it was against the rules to show me Gene at that time. But I
knew the policeman only thought I’d break down, but I promised
him I wouldn’t carry on, and he took me into a room to let me
see Gene. It was Gene.
“I know to-day how they killed him. The poor boy that shot him
was standing in Chatham Square arguing with another man when
Gene told him to move on. When the young man wouldn’t, but only
answered back, Gene shoved him, and the young man pulled a
revolver and shot Gene in the face, and he died before Father
Rafferty, of St. James’s, got to him. God rest his soul. A lot
of policemen heard the shot, and they all came running with
their pistols and clubs in their hands. Policeman Laux--I’ll
never forget his name or any of the others that ran to help
Gene--came down the Bowery and ran out into the middle of the
square where Gene lay.
“When the man that shot Gene saw the policemen coming, he
crouched down and shot at Policeman Laux, but, thank God, he
missed him. Then policemen named Harrington and Rourke and
Moran and Kehoe chased the man all around the streets there,
some heading him off when he tried to run into that street that
goes off at an angle--East Broadway, is it?--a big crowd had
come out of Chinatown now and was chasing the man, too, until
Policemen Rourke and Kehoe got him backed up against a wall.
When Policeman Kehoe came up close, the man shot his pistol
right at Kehoe and the bullet grazed Kehoe’s helmet.
“All the policemen jumped at the man then, and one of them
knocked the pistol out of his hand with a blow of a club.
They beat him, this Billy Morley, so Jerry says his name is,
but they had to because he fought so hard. They told me this
evening that it will go hard with the unfortunate murderer,
because Jerry says that when a man named Frank O’Hare, who was
arrested this evening charged with stealing cloth or something,
was being taken into headquarters, he told Detective Gegan
that he and a one-armed man who answered to the description of
Morley, the young man who killed Gene, had a drink last night
in a saloon at Twenty-second street and Avenue A and that when
the one-armed man was leaving the saloon he turned and said,
‘Boys, I’m going out now to bang a guy with buttons.’
“They haven’t brought me Gene’s body yet. Coroner Shrady, so my
Jerry says, held Billy Morley, the murderer, without letting
him get out on bail, and I suppose that in a case like this
they have to do a lot of things before they can let me have the
body here. If Gene only hadn’t died before Father Rafferty got
to him, I’d be happier. He didn’t need to make his confession,
you know, but it would have been better, wouldn’t it? He wasn’t
bad, and he went to mass on Sunday without being told; and
even in Lent, when we always say the rosary out loud in the
dining-room every night, Gene himself said to me the day after
Ash Wednesday, ‘If you want to say the rosary at noon, mammy,
before I go out, instead of at night when I can’t be here,
we’ll do it.’
“God will see that Gene’s happy to-night, won’t he, after
Gene said that?” the mother asked as she walked out into the
hallway with her black-robed daughters grouped behind her. “I
know he will,” she said, “and I’ll--” She stopped with an arm
resting on the banister to support her. “I--I know I promised
you, girls,” said Gene’s mother, “that I’d try not to cry any
more, but I can’t help it.” And she turned toward the wall and
covered her face with her apron.
This story was reprinted in the _Outlook_, under the title, “The Death
of Happy Gene Sheehan,” with the following editorial preface:
“The ‘stories’ of the reporter on a daily paper are written under such
trying conditions of hurry and confusion that they seldom have, in
the very nature of the case, what is called the ‘literary touch.’ But
occasionally a news writer produces a story which has real qualities
of vividness, pathos and power. The following account of the death of
Happy Gene Sheehan, which we reprint by special permission from the New
York _Sun_, belongs to this class. On the morning when it appeared, a
group of business men, one of whom has related the incident to us, were
riding from Peekskill to New York in a commuters’ club car. Several
games of cards were in progress, and the rest of the passengers were
busy with their newspapers or in conversation. Suddenly a clergyman,
who had been reading the _Sun_, rose and asked permission to read a
story which he had just finished. He had read only a few lines before
the card games were stopped, newspapers were laid down, and every man
in the car was giving earnest attention to the reading. It was the
story of Happy Sheehan; and the effect which it produced upon such a
group of busy men, not easily to be moved by sentiment, and not at all,
except to disgust, by sentimentality, was the best compliment which it
could have received.”