First, I’ve got to admit I’ve never met David Granger and I wouldn’t know his temperament from his toy trains, but this is how I imagine his inner monologue as he arises every weekday morning: “Watch how it’s done…amateurs. I shall now go forth and exult over yet another day of my brilliance in the Hearst Tower.”
Perhaps it doesn’t happen exactly like that.
But it could.
Granger hires and delegates well. That’s a given. And he’s managed a long tenure as an EIC, which is an impressive feat in the hypercompetitive cagematch of New York publishing. I assume that’s a reflection of his skills as an out-and-out magazine guy. Like Sinatra, he can hold, define and gingerly tangle a melody.
Granger does more than sing a song, however. He reinvents it. In his exuberance for the medium, he constantly shreds page templates that worked just fine last month. Or the month before that. Apparently, the man can’t get no satisfaction.
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