When I was taking journalism classes at the University of New Mexico, one of the most embarrassing lessons I learned was from a crusty old professor who used to be an editor at a daily paper.
He had been retired from that job for years, but he still embodied what I thought was the typical image of an old school editor. He was slightly rotund, he always wore a starched white shirt with a few ink stains on it, and occasionally a bow tie. His voice was deep and gravelly, like he had spent a couple decades chomping on a cigar.
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