One afternoon two years ago at TNQ HQ, I was delighted to hear Kim mention Cynthia Brouse. Her piece “Doris and Me,” was in the issue then heading toward the printers, No 108: Assorted Pedestrians. I readily spilled all to Kim and Rosalynn about the memories I had of Cynthia as an instructor; hers was a required course for my Bachelor of Journalism degree. A few weeks later Kim saw Cynthia in person; when she mentioned me, Cynthia said she fondly remembered my class. It warmed my heart to know that my name, for whatever reason, was still in Cynthia’s mind, as she was one of my favorite teachers—I learned as much from her outside the classroom as I did in it.

Last week, when we heard that Cynthia had passed away after a long battle with cancer, Kim asked if I would write a little something for the blog. I was unsure how to go about it, but Kim has such faith in me that I couldn’t let her down. I didn’t know Cynthia well, and I know that there are grand tributes written for her by much more qualified people. However, Cynthia gave me hope in a time when I was losing it, and fast, and I’d like to share my memories with you.

Though I enjoyed my classes at Ryerson, I have to confess that I always knew I did not fit in with the rest of my classmates. I didn’t have that drive to tell the whole truth and nothing but and then some like so many of my classmates, so by third year I was experiencing a crisis; what the hell was I doing in j-skool when I so clearly was not cut out to be a reporter?

Then I took Cynthia’s magazine editing course in my third year. The course lasted 2 semesters, and to anyone who thinks that sounds like overkill, I’m telling you that 8 months studying copy editing and basic editing with a proofreading mastermind like Cynthia Brouse isn’t enough. Her high standards for copy editing and grammatical accuracy scared me so badly I nearly became too paranoid to hand in my assignments. Then I started to see words from her point of view, which was to place great value on the craft of writing. Why not revel in the nuances of semicolons and precise spacing? How can one fail to see a missing end quote or not be immensely bothered by the widow at the end of a paragraph?

In her class, I discovered that I like proofreading, editing and all that behind-the-scenes type work—that I could make a career of it.  That I did not have to be a reporter. I’m sure that was illuminating for you to discover. But take a moment to stop guffawing and realize that at the tender age of 21, it was a major discovery for me.  I really, really like working behind the scenes. Every time Kim, Rosalynn or Melissa suggests I write for the blog, I freak out a little and try to figure out how to get out of it. As you can read, sometimes that plan doesn’t work.

I owe this self-discovery, and my admiration for a perfect bit of writing, to Cynthia. It’s all I can do not to pick up a pencil and make squiggly editor’s marks when I find errors in punctuation or spelling, hyphens used when M dashes are necessary, or, God help me find the will to be calm, upon realizing that the writer hit the space bar twice between each word. Thank God, and Cynthia, for giving me the “find and replace” tool in most word processing programs.

I also owe to Cynthia the only time I was so drunk that I was incapable of walking. Anyone who knows me understands that this is a special memory because A) I don’t drink all that often and B) I generally do not act as drunk as I am (seriously, I’ve had to confess later that I was much more sloshed than my company thought on several occasions).  She suggested after our last class that we venture to the pub. I think it must have been before Christmas break, but now I honestly can’t remember. I do remember that her class was two or three hours long and that I hadn’t eaten anything since starting class and I didn’t eat anything at the pub. But I did split a pitcher with a couple of classmates, and one of them really liked to refill my glass. I remember sensible Cynthia ordering food, (fish and chips – why would I remember that?), and thinking much later that I should have done the same. When it came time to depart on the ten minute walk back to my apartment, I stood up and I slid right back into my chair. Later, I remember my roommate laughing at me when I declined the delicious dinner she had left out for me and instead made a peanut butter sandwich, guzzled water and went to sleep. At 8 p.m. It’s nice to have this life lesson linked to such a fantastic person. And it wasn’t our last time partying with Cynthia! That warm, kind woman opened up her house to us when our class was completely over, and I admit readily that I had learned from my last party with Cynthia so there was no stumbling around this time.

If I tried to explain the kind of person Cynthia was, I’d be forced to use regular words like warm, fun, outgoing, passionate and helluva good proofreader. All right that last bit is far from regular. My point is that those are just words and Cynthia was so much more than words can describe. I’ll never capture her vibrancy, her patience and kindness. But I caught her fever for working with words. I don’t know where my career will take me. I don’t know if I’ll end up in the publishing world. I know that there are probably mistakes in this blog, that it’s not the most amazing group of words splattered on the page. And, in case you’re wondering, I definitely did not get anything near an A in Cynthia’s class. But, I have a true appreciation for words—-not for writing exactly, but for the artistry of sculpting text, and that appreciation, seeded by Cynthia Brouse, I will carry with me long after the career is over. Also thanks to her? I will never again drink on an empty stomach.

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