s
STUDENTS IN SAMUEL DONALDSON’S TAX AND ESTATE LAW CLASSES know to look out for the professor’s puzzles. These brainteasers aren’t part of the weighty essay exams that pupils cram for all night. The answers aren’t checked, nor are the results factored into the semester’s final grades. In fact, these little tests aren’t even traditional pop quizzes at all.
They’re crosswords, laid out in a standard 15-by-15 grid by Donaldson himself. Some of the clues refer back to the curriculum, but others involve more extensive knowledge and trivia. It’s a game, after all. But that’s not to say these little down-and-across exercises don’t serve a purpose.
“I give them as a diversion to keep that flexible part of their minds working,” says Donaldson. “In these puzzles, you can think you have an answer, but you have to be willing to erase and come up with other answers if the first doesn’t fit. Law is all about not being firmly convinced. You have to be willing to see that the answer could be something else. If you’re not willing to erase, you’ll never solve the problem.”
Donaldson’s explanation is a great excuse for him to let his students have a fun little break from their grueling course load. It also neatly illustrates the intersection of Donaldson’s two careers: professor and builder of crossword puzzles.
Another word for the latter (14 letters, starts with “C”) is cruciverbalist, a title Donaldson can include prominently on his resume after penning and publishing more than 120 puzzles in the likes of The New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Washington Post and his hometown Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Though Donaldson gets paid for his work — at least the submissions that are accepted — he sees himself as an amateur, a hobbyist who spends his few spare hours outside of teaching laboring over empty boxes and cryptic clues, trying to elicit in others the pure joy of solving a puzzle.
“You want to create something that people see and, at first, are like, ‘What the hell?’” he says. “Ideally, after two or three tries, they figure it out. They have that ‘aha’ moment.”
“Law is all about not being firmly convinced. You have to be willing to see that the answer could be something else. If you’re not willing to erase, you’ll never solve the problem.”
Donaldson created a special crossword puzzle for Georgia State University Magazine. Click here to download.
If you need a little help or want to check your answers, click here.
s
STUDENTS IN SAMUEL DONALDSON’S TAX AND ESTATE LAW CLASSES know to look out for the professor’s puzzles. These brainteasers aren’t part of the weighty essay exams that pupils cram for all night. The answers aren’t checked, nor are the results factored into the semester’s final grades. In fact, these little tests aren’t even traditional pop quizzes at all.
They’re crosswords, laid out in a standard 15-by-15 grid by Donaldson himself. Some of the clues refer back to the curriculum, but others involve more extensive knowledge and trivia. It’s a game, after all. But that’s not to say these little down-and-across exercises don’t serve a purpose.
“I give them as a diversion to keep that flexible part of their minds working,” says Donaldson. “In these puzzles, you can think you have an answer, but you have to be willing to erase and come up with other answers if the first doesn’t fit. Law is all about not being firmly convinced. You have to be willing to see that the answer could be something else. If you’re not willing to erase, you’ll never solve the problem.”
Donaldson’s explanation is a great excuse for him to let his students have a fun little break from their grueling course load. It also neatly illustrates the intersection of Donaldson’s two careers: professor and builder of crossword puzzles.
Another word for the latter (14 letters, starts with “C”) is cruciverbalist, a title Donaldson can include prominently on his resume after penning and publishing more than 120 puzzles in the likes of The New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Washington Post and his hometown Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Though Donaldson gets paid for his work — at least the submissions that are accepted — he sees himself as an amateur, a hobbyist who spends his few spare hours outside of teaching laboring over empty boxes and cryptic clues, trying to elicit in others the pure joy of solving a puzzle.
“You want to create something that people see and, at first, are like, ‘What the hell?’” he says. “Ideally, after two or three tries, they figure it out. They have that ‘aha’ moment.”
“Law is all about not being firmly convinced. You have to be willing to see that the answer could be something else. If you’re not willing to erase, you’ll never solve the problem.”
Donaldson created a special crossword puzzle for Georgia State University Magazine. Click here to download.
If you need a little help or want to check your answers, click here.
p
Pencils Ready
Donaldson’s “aha” moment didn’t come until he was 40 years old. For the first four decades of his life, crosswords were a hobby that ebbed and flowed in intensity. As a child, he’d wait for his father to return to their Portland, Ore., house after a long day working as a trainmaster for Union Pacific Railroad. His dad would grab both the morning and evening newspapers, sit in his favorite easy chair and fill out the puzzles in pen. Donaldson would crawl up onto his father’s lap and offer suggestions.
The senior Donaldson would simplify the clues for his son and occasionally even cram the boy’s errant answers into the grid just to hearten him until, distracted by the adjacent comics, he’d wander off to let his father finish in peace. Later as a preteen, Donaldson subscribed to a games magazine, but the boxes inside would often go unfilled as the adolescent’s life took over.
But in 2006 — long after Donaldson had graduated from the University of Arizona College of Law, when he was directing the graduate tax program at the University of Washington — he saw a documentary called “Wordplay.” The film is a tribute to all things crossword, including a profile of Will Shortz, the so-called “puzzle master” and editor of the wildly popular New York Times crossword. There was also footage of the American Crossword Puzzle Tournament, held every year in Stamford, Conn., where box-fillers flocked to compete, indulge and connect. The movie awakened something dormant deep inside of Donaldson.
“It was a beacon that called out to me,” he says. “‘This is your tribe.’”
The following year, Donaldson treated himself to a belated 40th birthday present — a trip to Connecticut and an entry fee for the tournament. He walked into the convention hall and instantly felt at home.
“Crosswords are such a solitary pursuit,” he says. “Some couples might work the Sunday New York Times puzzle over coffee. But most puzzles don’t give way to conversation with the people sitting next to you or across the table. Here were 500 people who appreciate the magic that went into the building of a puzzle.”
The tournament was like a rite of passage. The contestants sat at tables in a large ballroom as the proctors passed out sheets of paper face down in front of them.
“You have 15 minutes,” called the official standing at the front of the room beside a large digital timer. “Ready. Set. Go!”
The command spurred a collective whoosh as hundreds of people simultaneously flipped over their pages. Then a brief lull of complete silence as they read the clues, yielding quickly to the scrit-scrit-scrit of graphite scratching paper and the inevitable rub-rub-sweep of erasers. After about two minutes, the first competitors started to get up and turn in their answers. Donaldson was among the many more who took the entire time. Once the scores were tallied, Donaldson finished 492nd out of 700.
Infinitely more valuable than that humbling experience in the tournament was the immediate access to the cruciverbalists in attendance. Finally putting faces and handshakes to the names he had read below the clues in his newspapers, Donaldson found almost all of these masters extremely approachable. When he mentioned he was thinking about creating his own crosswords, they all offered encouragement, and many offered tips, recommendations and even contact information for future advice.
Donaldson came home emboldened and started building. In 2008, he took a sabbatical from the University of Washington. In addition to his law research projects, he began seriously digging into his puzzle construction. His goal was to have a crossword published in The New York Times before his six-month leave was over.
Clue Finder
Donaldson figures it takes him about two hours to create the grid for a daily puzzle, and another hour or two to write the clues. For a Sunday puzzle, however, it takes about twice as long.
“I spend much more time developing the theme,” he says. “I need to brainstorm all of the possible theme entries and then select the best ones, hoping they are of symmetrical lengths. Sometimes, it takes 10 minutes, and sometimes it takes 10 hours, depending on the idea.”
As for his ability to solve a puzzle, that depends on the day of the week.
“I usually solve Monday puzzles in about four minutes. Saturday puzzles take about 10 to 12 minutes. Sunday-sized puzzles are usually around 15 minutes,” he says.
Grids for Sale
As with any work of art, a crossword begins with a spark of inspiration. Most puzzles are built around a central theme — either a topic (like “The Wizard of Oz” or 19th-century U.S. presidents) or a format of clues and answers (such as inverted phrases in the form of “BLANK IN THE BLANK,” where “GRASS IN THE SNAKE” might be the answer to “Diagnosis for a stoned viper.”)
“The goal is to come up with something no one has seen in the almost 110-year history of crossword puzzles,” says Donaldson. “And, of course, something that will work.”
That might sound simple, but it’s actually the hardest part of the process. Generally, the theme of a puzzle is built on the longest answers across. And since the grids must have rotational symmetry — meaning, they must maintain the same layout of open and black boxes no matter which way the puzzle is spun — builders have to come up with thematic words of equal length. For instance, if there’s a 15-letter thematic word three rows from the top, there needs to be a 15-letter thematic word three rows from the bottom.
“Even if I come up with a theme, it’s a no-go if I can’t come up with matching-length answers,” says Donaldson. “A lot of it is really just luck.”
g
But if the gods of down-and-across do smile upon Donaldson, then the real construction begins. He builds the grid and lays out the theme words. Then he fills in the boxes around those long words with short terms and phrases, making sure the necessary letters neatly intersect. Next, he sets to work on the clever, but not too clever, clues.
“If I have to use an obscure European river just to make a puzzle work out, even experienced solvers would raise an eyebrow,” says Donaldson.
The idea is to make the piece simple yet deceptively smart to the reader with a structure clean and elegant to the glancing eye — more of a realist painting than a Jackson Pollack.
Donaldson’s early efforts were naturally more abstract — or, as he puts it, “hot garbage.” But gradually, after hours of trial and error, he got some grids to lock into place. His first published puzzle ran in USA Today during his 2008 sabbatical. Next was the New York Sun. Finally, he broke through and got a grid in The New York Times in October of the same year, months after he returned to work. It’s a feat he’s replicated 32 times since.
When he arrived at Georgia State’s College of Law as a professor in 2012, he brought his side gig with him. Each puzzle takes anywhere between one hour and 30, spread out over time. For each one he sells, he estimates about two to three times as many end up on the “Island of Misfit Puzzles.” Of the 200 or so cruciverbalists in the world, only a handful are talented and prolific enough to do it full time.
“For most of us, it’s an avocation, not a vocation,” Donaldson says.
Donaldson is still a passionate consumer of puzzles, which helps him and inspires him in his creation. He spends his 40-minute MARTA commute every morning and evening working crosswords, cranking out three or four finished puzzles each way. He still competes each year in the national tournament. He’s improved his ranking considerably, coming in 66th out of 741 participants last year. He still takes most of the allotted time to check over his work and make sure he’s confident in most of his answers. Like any true cruciverbalist, he’s not afraid to erase a guess and try again.
p
Pencils Ready
Donaldson’s “aha” moment didn’t come until he was 40 years old. For the first four decades of his life, crosswords were a hobby that ebbed and flowed in intensity. As a child, he’d wait for his father to return to their Portland, Ore., house after a long day working as a trainmaster for Union Pacific Railroad. His dad would grab both the morning and evening newspapers, sit in his favorite easy chair and fill out the puzzles in pen. Donaldson would crawl up onto his father’s lap and offer suggestions.
The senior Donaldson would simplify the clues for his son and occasionally even cram the boy’s errant answers into the grid just to hearten him until, distracted by the adjacent comics, he’d wander off to let his father finish in peace. Later as a preteen, Donaldson subscribed to a games magazine, but the boxes inside would often go unfilled as the adolescent’s life took over.
But in 2006 — long after Donaldson had graduated from the University of Arizona College of Law, when he was directing the graduate tax program at the University of Washington — he saw a documentary called “Wordplay.” The film is a tribute to all things crossword, including a profile of Will Shortz, the so-called “puzzle master” and editor of the wildly popular New York Times crossword. There was also footage of the American Crossword Puzzle Tournament, held every year in Stamford, Conn., where box-fillers flocked to compete, indulge and connect. The movie awakened something dormant deep inside of Donaldson.
“It was a beacon that called out to me,” he says. “‘This is your tribe.’”
The following year, Donaldson treated himself to a belated 40th birthday present — a trip to Connecticut and an entry fee for the tournament. He walked into the convention hall and instantly felt at home.
“Crosswords are such a solitary pursuit,” he says. “Some couples might work the Sunday New York Times puzzle over coffee. But most puzzles don’t give way to conversation with the people sitting next to you or across the table. Here were 500 people who appreciate the magic that went into the building of a puzzle.”
The tournament was like a rite of passage. The contestants sat at tables in a large ballroom as the proctors passed out sheets of paper face down in front of them.
“You have 15 minutes,” called the official standing at the front of the room beside a large digital timer. “Ready. Set. Go!”
The command spurred a collective whoosh as hundreds of people simultaneously flipped over their pages. Then a brief lull of complete silence as they read the clues, yielding quickly to the scrit-scrit-scrit of graphite scratching paper and the inevitable rub-rub-sweep of erasers. After about two minutes, the first competitors started to get up and turn in their answers. Donaldson was among the many more who took the entire time. Once the scores were tallied, Donaldson finished 492nd out of 700.
Infinitely more valuable than that humbling experience in the tournament was the immediate access to the cruciverbalists in attendance. Finally putting faces and handshakes to the names he had read below the clues in his newspapers, Donaldson found almost all of these masters extremely approachable. When he mentioned he was thinking about creating his own crosswords, they all offered encouragement, and many offered tips, recommendations and even contact information for future advice.
Donaldson came home emboldened and started building. In 2008, he took a sabbatical from the University of Washington. In addition to his law research projects, he began seriously digging into his puzzle construction. His goal was to have a crossword published in The New York Times before his six-month leave was over.
Clue Finder
Donaldson figures it takes him about two hours to create the grid for a daily puzzle, and another hour or two to write the clues. For a Sunday puzzle, however, it takes about twice as long.
“I spend much more time developing the theme,” he says. “I need to brainstorm all of the possible theme entries and then select the best ones, hoping they are of symmetrical lengths. Sometimes, it takes 10 minutes, and sometimes it takes 10 hours, depending on the idea.”
As for his ability to solve a puzzle, that depends on the day of the week.
“I usually solve Monday puzzles in about four minutes. Saturday puzzles take about 10 to 12 minutes. Sunday-sized puzzles are usually around 15 minutes,” he says.
g
Grids for Sale
As with any work of art, a crossword begins with a spark of inspiration. Most puzzles are built around a central theme — either a topic (like “The Wizard of Oz” or 19th-century U.S. presidents) or a format of clues and answers (such as inverted phrases in the form of “BLANK IN THE BLANK,” where “GRASS IN THE SNAKE” might be the answer to “Diagnosis for a stoned viper.”)
“The goal is to come up with something no one has seen in the almost 110-year history of crossword puzzles,” says Donaldson. “And, of course, something that will work.”
That might sound simple, but it’s actually the hardest part of the process. Generally, the theme of a puzzle is built on the longest answers across. And since the grids must have rotational symmetry — meaning, they must maintain the same layout of open and black boxes no matter which way the puzzle is spun — builders have to come up with thematic words of equal length. For instance, if there’s a 15-letter thematic word three rows from the top, there needs to be a 15-letter thematic word three rows from the bottom.
“Even if I come up with a theme, it’s a no-go if I can’t come up with matching-length answers,” says Donaldson. “A lot of it is really just luck.”
But if the gods of down-and-across do smile upon Donaldson, then the real construction begins. He builds the grid and lays out the theme words. Then he fills in the boxes around those long words with short terms and phrases, making sure the necessary letters neatly intersect. Next, he sets to work on the clever, but not too clever, clues.
“If I have to use an obscure European river just to make a puzzle work out, even experienced solvers would raise an eyebrow,” says Donaldson.
The idea is to make the piece simple yet deceptively smart to the reader with a structure clean and elegant to the glancing eye — more of a realist painting than a Jackson Pollack.
Donaldson’s early efforts were naturally more abstract — or, as he puts it, “hot garbage.” But gradually, after hours of trial and error, he got some grids to lock into place. His first published puzzle ran in USA Today during his 2008 sabbatical. Next was the New York Sun. Finally, he broke through and got a grid in The New York Times in October of the same year, months after he returned to work. It’s a feat he’s replicated 32 times since.
When he arrived at Georgia State’s College of Law as a professor in 2012, he brought his side gig with him. Each puzzle takes anywhere between one hour and 30, spread out over time. For each one he sells, he estimates about two to three times as many end up on the “Island of Misfit Puzzles.” Of the 200 or so cruciverbalists in the world, only a handful are talented and prolific enough to do it full time.
“For most of us, it’s an avocation, not a vocation,” Donaldson says.
Donaldson is still a passionate consumer of puzzles, which helps him and inspires him in his creation. He spends his 40-minute MARTA commute every morning and evening working crosswords, cranking out three or four finished puzzles each way. He still competes each year in the national tournament. He’s improved his ranking considerably, coming in 66th out of 741 participants last year. He still takes most of the allotted time to check over his work and make sure he’s confident in most of his answers. Like any true cruciverbalist, he’s not afraid to erase a guess and try again.