An Elegy for Elegance

Lo these many years ago, 13 to be exact (my how the 'ole broad is aging . . .), I was privileged enough to land a job at Elegant Bride magazine. It was not located in New York, as it is now, nor was it like the depictions of magazine publishing you often find in entertainment today ala Ugly Betty or The Devil Wears Prada. But it was thrilling. There is something thrilling about magazine publishing in general in my mind. In my career, I have done just about every kind of magazine publishing there is, newsstand, business-to-business and custom, and who wouldn't be excited to see their name on the masthead of a magazine that can be found in Seattle or Topeka or Boston?

What did I love about Elegant Bride? I loved learning the rules of getting married, my anal retentive soul gobbled up the do's and don'ts, the etiquette for how to be an elegant bride like a drunk on a bender. To this day I can still tell you how to properly address an envelope to a household with two last names or what time of day requires formal attire, not that many people care any more about such rules, much less obey them.

I loved seeing my name of course, but what I loved more was the idea that thousands of people were reading my words. Since first grade I knew I wanted to write, and although writing about how to handle including step parents on your invitation may not have been my seven year old self's dream, these were still real people reading my writing.

But most of all I loved the people I worked with—they continued my education on how to be more of a girl, adding how to be a lady and how to be a professional. That is not to say that I achieved those goals while working there. Nor have I necessarily achieved them at this current moment in time, but those women (and man) gave me the ideals I will forever strive to obtain. They showed me style, savvy, fortitude, humor, compassion, adaptability, charm, grace and that sometimes it is best to quit while you are ahead. I was honored to work with them and grateful that I still call so many of them friends.

Several years after I left the magazine, things were changing and not looking promising for me career-wise (and as I mentioned my co-workers did teach me to quit when I was ahead), the publishing company who owned it sold it to Conde Nast. The publishing giant already published Brides and Modern Bride so I never quite understood why they would want a third magazine, although style-wise Elegant Bride was head and shoulders above those two books, and apparently I was right. It would appear that in a recession one does not in fact need three bridal magazines. So Conde Nast is shuttering both Modern Bride and Elegant Bride (apparently we no longer need to distinguish between brides, just any old bride will do during hard times), as well as the parenting magazine Cookie and the venerable Gourmet.

I don't like change and I most certainly don't like goodbyes, but then I guess most don't. And while no one I know works for Elegant Bride any longer, it is still a prized part of my past that is being razed due to the almighty dollar. I wonder what else I love will be lost because of the transgressions of men in suits who control the purse strings?

Death Knell

In case you haven't pursued my personal info and just happen to be a passerby and not a loyal friend that I guilt into reading my ramblings, you may not be aware that I work in publishing. (Silly reader, you thought I was just a civilian who had a way with words? Alas, I am a professional bullshitter, poorly paid, much maligned and generally regarded as suspect by anyone who sees nothing wrong with a sign for the Kwik Mart.)

Publishing is an industry that has been declining of late. Or so the media seems so fond of telling me on practically a daily basis. (Salon talks about newspapers in particular here and here. Newsweek has review popular authors like David Baldacci and Jodi Picoult and bemoaned the declining popularity of "Literature.") Oh yeah, and then there was this lovely ode to Amazon's Kindle also from Newsweek.

I get it—print is dead or at least on life support. Thus goes the way of the dodo the only thing I am really good at (despite the evidence to the contrary I am providing by ending my sentences with prepositions). And if you hadn't already convinced me with the news listed above, then the continuing layoffs that my friends have experienced again this week, should clue me in. 

So what's a girl with newsprint on her fingers and clauses in her heart to do?

I got nothing. Except my stubborn insistence that despite all the dang technology those IT folks throw at us, all the online information and networking available, there will always be stubborn old coots like myself that want something of heft to hold in our hands while we sit on the beach, or while we ride the train to work, or when we curl up in bed at night. 

Almost 570 years ago, Gutenberg brought us the printing press and ushered in a new era of communication. But lest we forget, the art of storytelling existed long before letters were mechanically embedded into paper. Our earliest ancestors found ways to share their tales, whether it was through oral traditions or cave paintings like those found at Lascaux, France. Something tells me that won't change. What will change is the methods, perhaps, of how we do this.

Don't count publishing out just yet.