This is the 25th issue of Stanford that I have edited -- and the last. By the time this magazine reaches you, I will be settling in at a new job back in the commercial magazine world.
I suppose this would be a good moment to reveal the secret of what we immodestly consider our success: colored pencils and Post-It notes. That's right -- here at the epicenter of Silicon Valley, the cradle of innovation that spawned the Internet age and recently gave birth to the disposable cell phone, our editing system depends on the sort of low-tech supplies crammed into your junk drawer.
When I arrived here from Washington, D.C., more than four years ago, I was, to be honest, a bit put off by the magazine's archaic production system. I'll spare you the specifics of how it worked, but here's a clue: by the time a story had finished circulating among all the editors, it would be marked up with a half-dozen colors (I inherited forest green) and festooned with yellow stickies bearing additional editorial suggestions. Within weeks I vowed to purchase some fancy editing software and blaze into the '90s. But I never did. The articles, I realized, seemed to benefit from our peculiar -- and colorful -- system of group editing. It wasn't broke; why fix it?
As the months went on, we did make a series of substantive changes to the design and content of the magazine. Mostly, though, we honed in on a blessedly simple mission: look for great stories and then try to tell them in a compelling and entertaining way.
I've now done two stints at Stanford. The first ended in 1985, when I left campus with a bachelor's degree, a 22-year-old's confidence and, for a Chicagoan, a pretty good tan. After a decade reporting for Newsweek, I returned to the University in late 1995. Things have been a bit different for me this time: I never fret about midterms, rarely have a chance to play Frisbee and miss all the good keg parties.
What's changed most, though, is that, as a member of Stanford's staff, I've had the chance to work alongside a remarkable set of colleagues throughout the University and at the alumni association in particular. Talk about the perfect formula: good people doing good work, and having fun doing it.
The memories have piled up faster than the lame puns we sometimes use in photo captions. There's the magazine team gathered around the table in my office, devoting 30 minutes to getting a single headline just right. (My favorite: "The Naughty Professor," for a story about a famous economics scholar whose moral failings cost him his job. Best one we never printed: "When the Shtick Hits the Fan," for a story about the stunts pulled by some desperate Stanford applicants.) There's Bill Stone, '67, MBA '69, president of the Stanford Alumni Association, who had the courage to lead SAA into a new relationship with the University without sacrificing his commitment to alumni or to his staff -- and without losing his sense of humor. There's the fact that "chitchat" -- shameless gossip, really -- is formally on the agenda at our weekly senior staff meeting. The satisfaction of helping out at the annual Reunion Homecoming weekend, if you call tooling around in a golf cart helping out. And the outpouring of support and warmth from my colleagues when my wife became seriously ill 18 months ago.
Last summer, I found myself standing on a 60-foot-high platform in the middle of a redwood forest. It was one of those staff-bonding retreats, and below me were a dozen magazine colleagues encouraging me to step into the abyss. With the help of ropes and pulleys and a harness I was wearing, they would break my fall. I wasn't much scared; we back each other up every day. I knew I was in strong hands, just as I know the magazine remains so now.
It's not every day you venture from safety into the unknown. As I take that step again, I'm grateful to so many of you for your support. It's an editor's dream to have readers who take such an active interest in the life of a magazine.
I won't be alone in missing this place. My daughter, who is 4, has been weaned on Stanford. She attends day care here, comes to campus with me on weekends to play in my office, ride her bike or walk the Dish, and cheers the Cardinal at football and basketball games. The other day she saw me packing up my office and grew concerned. "Daddy," she said softly, "does this mean you won't be on the Stanford team anymore?" I didn't even hesitate. "Maya," I said, "we'll always be on the Stanford team."
You can now reach Bob Cohn at bobcohn@stanfordalumni.org.
