During the second half of my year in journalism school, as my classmates and I went on job interviews, professors advised us that editors would likely pose the following question: “Are you a reporter or a writer?” The correct answer, we were told, was to say “reporter.” The critical difference was that a reporter was focused on content, on asking the tough questions, on being relentless in pursuit of the facts, while a writer would focus more on the style of writing, on being a wordsmith, a master of prose. Hard-boiled editors need reporters who can be aggressive in pursuit of the facts and smart on their feet. No flouncy prose for them.

The problem for me was that the writing part was my strength, and the reporting was where I struggled. Toward the end of my year in journalism school I participated in a small group discussion about the newspaper business (now almost an anachronism) with Clifford Teutsch, then the managing editor of The Hartford Courant. He said that when he made hiring decisions, he was looking for strong writers, because you have to be really smart to write well, and it’s much easier for a good writer to learn about a particular subject or field (a beat, if you will), than to take someone with loads of expertise but no writing talent, and teach that person to write.

Armed with these somewhat conflicting snippets of advice, on an interview, when I was actually asked if I was a reporter or a writer, I said writer. I still got the job.

That, however, was just the beginning of the journey. Reporting and writing are both broad categories of skills. In my brief years of newspaper reporting, I was mostly assigned to cover community features, and usually had two to seven days to develop each story before the deadline. However, a handful of times, I had to track down a source on a very tight deadline (less than two hours), extract the necessary information through brief phone calls, and then write up the story very quickly for an impatient editor. I struggled mightily with this, especially on one occasion in which the television news was already reporting the same story and the person I reached was not interested in repeating what they had just told the people with the fancy cameras and lights. Not my finest moment. But, as my experience grew, my general reporting skills improved, and I especially thrived in the sort of situation where I could sit down with a subject for an unhurried hour and have a fully developed conversation. I learned over time to be more critical, to ask probing questions and to react to what was said with follow-up questions, not just to stick to a prepared list of questions.

Still I was, and am, a writer at heart. The thrill for me is not just in delivering the facts, but in the crafting of the phrases, of enhancing the copy to be more than a straightforward recitation of information, but also a pleasant, and sometimes memorable, reading experience.

There is, of course, a time and place for everything. I laugh when I think back on my attempts at writing fiction in high school and college, and how very wordy and saccharine my prose was at that time. Good writing, according to the advice of Strunk and White in the iconic “Elements of Style,” is straightforward and spare – no superfluous words, no unnecessary flourishes of language. And yet, good writing is not merely utilitarian. Language is beautiful and fluid. Writing well is a careful architecture, not merely a cobbling together of words. It is placing the decorative cornice just so, not overshadowing it with a mawkish gargoyle, but also not leaving the cornice out altogether because it is not essential to the function of the building.

For a bit of fun, and to exercise my writing skills, below are two examples of styles that are incongruous – purple prose that obfuscates meaning where facts are needed, and spare copy that misses essential nuances. Yes, folks, I wrote badly on purpose.

Victorian novelist wannabe reports on a fire for a newspaper

The conflagration overtook the first and second floors of the edifice, sweeping through with fiery wrath. Sirens tore through the night as firefighters raced from their quarters to the scene. They stormed the charred doors and drenched the home with torrents of water. The unharmed inhabitants stood trembling beneath dim street lights, watching as dancing flames gave way to billows of smoke. Clutching blankets around themselves, they were overcome with emotion – relief that they had not been harmed, despair that their home was lost, fear of what was to come. Quickly, neighbors gathered around to offer comfort and assistance. By morning’s light, the family had found temporary shelter. (In other words: Home destroyed by fire: family placed in temporary shelter)

In deference to the late Robin Williams, a terse summary of “Dead Poets Society” (my favorite of his movies)

Private boarding school hires unconventional English teacher, who leads students on a series of antics, including standing on desks, while invoking a phrase in Latin. The teacher is fired due to disapproval from administrators and parents. (Totally misses the emotional nuances and deeper meaning of the film)