One thing I always looked for when assigning or writing a story for More was the holy shit factor. Not necessarily an over-the-top tabloid ride, though these can be fun, too. I mean the unexpected detail, even a nugget, that would make readers’ goosebumps sit up and take notice. Take Sheila Weller’s heart-stopping account of war-correspondent Clarissa Ward, indefatigable witness to the horrors unfolding in Syria, who risked death sneaking into the country with memory cards hidden in her underwear. Holy shit. Or anti-fracking activist Sharon Wilson, who was so beautifully rendered in Suzanna Andrews’s rollicking profile. Wilson uses proceeds from the sale of mineral rights on her own land to finance her crusade against fracking. Whoa. I got the tingle when I was researching a piece about the funeral business and learned that an increasing number of women were choosing, at midlife, to change careers and literally stare death in the face every day. Ding ding ding. You know the detail when you see it. Here’s one more. A smart, provocative magazine beloved by more than a million stylish, accomplished readers with some of the highest household incomes in the business. Women who are curious, adventurous, open to new products, ideas and experiences. Who wouldn’t want to reach an audience like that? Advertisers, apparently. Holy shit. RIP More.

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