When I got to James’ office at the newspaper, he was seated at the computer making final changes to the current edition.
As he worked, we discussed an honorable figure who made a bad public mistake and never actually admitted doing so.
“People forgive those who own up,” he said as he worked. “They ruin those who do not.”
I agreed, then we went to get lunch.
“I picked out 60 stories that I liked,” I said. “For the book.”
He nodded.
“I talked to my superiors about that,” James said. “They’re not looking to do any books right now.”
“Maybe I’ll just pick out the very best ones, and publish a smaller book on my own,” I replied.
“That might be a problem,” he said.
“How is that?” I asked.
“Newspaper’s copyright everything they print.”
“What?”
“We own the stories.”
“You mean I don’t own my own stories?”
“You wrote them for us to publish, and we publish under a copyright,” James said.
“Let me be sure I understand this,” I replied. “I write a story, send it to the paper, who prints it — and then I don’t own it.”
“Basically, that’s my understanding of the law,” James said.
“This may be legal,” I said. “But it is neither moral nor ethical. I never took a cent for anything I wrote. Nor did I want a payment. I write because I love doing so.”
He understood, and explained how standard practices work with newspapers.
“But we don’t own the characters or the events,” James said. “Just this particular way of packaging them.“
He paused.
“You could tell these stories in a different form,” he suggested.
“I want to use them in the form I sent.”
“I understand that,” James smiled.
“Taking the stories is still wrong.”
“You could re-write them as fiction,” he continued.
The idea intrigued me.
“But I like writing for the paper,” I said, “and that Saturday deadline is my motivator.”
“I understand that,” James smiled.
We spoke for a while longer, then I thanked him for the information and the encouragement.
“My pleasure,” he said.
As I drove home, a voice from the past came to mind: “‘One time rights, to be paid for at the current rate, or returned to the writer,’ at the top of every article.”
“If you use everything I’ve taught you,” Professor Baird said, “and you publish an article during this course, you get an automatic ‘A.’”
So, I must have included his phrase when I submitted an article to “Grit,” then a country weekly with national distribution published in Williamsport, Pennsylvania.
After the “Grit” article was printed, I received a check for $25, and three copies of the paper, as the rights paragraph had stated. Fifty years later I did not even mention rights on the articles I sent to the newspaper and thus I gave my work away.
As soon as I got home, I plowed the internet for “ownership of literary property.” As best I understood what I read, a writer’s mode of employment determines who owns the article. If he writes for his employer, his employer owns the work. If he is a freelancer, writing for many sources, the source who pays him owns the work.
“But I am neither a staff writer, nor a freelance writer,“ I reasoned. “I’m a contributing one, who offers his work for free.”
I contacted the paper three years ago, after my former outlet closed, and I needed a place to publish. The person I talked to said “send us something.” I did, they published it, and we’ve been doing so since that time, with no agreement about who got what. All this began at least two years before James came.
I realized I should have discussed rights with my publisher. Even so, thinking of writing stories in the present situation made my stomach hurt. I would gladly give print and electronic rights to the paper, but I wanted to be able to control where the stories went after they became newspaper stories.
I wanted to be fair to my publisher, and I wanted him to be fair to me. To submit another column under the present constraints made my stomach hurt. So I called James, in time enough for him to replace my column, if necessary.
“From now on I want to include words like ‘This article is offered ‘gratis’ for use in print and electronic newspapers,’” I said. “All other rights are reserved.”
“Oh,” he answered.
“I can’t let the paper assume ownership of my articles,” I said, “without paying for them.”
I paused.
“So I just can’t send another article the way things are now.”
It was about 3 p.m., and James said, “Let me see what I can do.”
A few minutes after 5, I read an email: “Leon, I have an answer for you. James”
It was too late for me to call him back, so I used the intervening hours to fret over the ways this story might end.
I envisioned saying, “I have not received one penny for a group of over 1oo articles,” to a company lawyer. “So the writer-for-hire argument does not allow you to take the rights for my work, because you have not paid me.”
The imaginary lawyer shook his head, ”No.”
“I didn’t even want to get paid,” I continued. “All I want is to have the use of the materials I have written, other than those you need for the paper.”
The imaginary lawyer shook his head, again, and the dialogue ended.
I thought to myself, “I do not want to leave the paper. I care about my readers, and I like working with James. But if I have to leave, maybe I ‘ll do a blog.”
I answered myself, “No, the medium is wrong. I am dedicated to ink and paper.”
It will come as no surprise that I have been called “old school,” and for several reasons, the most pertinent in this connection being I consider traditional newspaper journalism to be superior to all other types, when the constraint is the trust and well-being of the readers. The one who “old-schooled” me was troubled at my contention that public relations was not journalism, because it was constrained only by the trust and well-being of its employer.
“Old-school” was not a compliment.
Because I wasn’t ready to hear his answer, I did not call James right away. Still I had the hope he might be old school, too, which to me is a profound compliment.
After a couple more hours, I stopped speculating.
“Lord, I have no idea what I should do” I said. “Would you please just work it out? Something redemptive?”
Perhaps an hour later, I called James.
“I talked to my boss,” he said. “Here’s what we can do. Your raw copy, before we’ve edited it, you do as you like. If you’d like to put them into a book on your own, that’s fine. What we’ve edited and published, we’ve had our hands on those so they couldn’t be used without our permission. I like what you add to the newspaper and I’d like for it to continue.”
“I am amazed,” I said. “This is redemptive.” Then I paused. “Done deal.”
He wished me well and said if a book is a success, that would be something the newspaper lives with missing out on.
“If I make that kind of revenue,” I said, “I will make a donation to the paper.”
I paused. “But I need this agreement in writing.”
“OK,” he said, tentatively.
“I trust you completely” I said, “but if someone hires you away, I want to have this agreement in writing for the new editor.”
“I’ll bring you something,” he said with a smile in his voice.
“Thank you,” I said.
“I like for everyone to be happy,” he smiled, before we hung up.
I believe those words. He does what he believes is right, sticks his neck out for the common good, not just for his readers, but for his writers, and his publisher — holding a commitment to truth and fairness in reporting, as well as in business. To my mind an ideal journalist, retaining the high standards held before reporting denatured itself into editorializing, and before the advent of the businesses of fake and diluted news.
“Old school,” indeed.