For what is a man, what has he got? If not himself
then he has naught Not to say the things that he truly feels And not the words of someone who kneels The record shows, I took the blows and did it my way
– Paul Anka’s English lyrics to the song “My Way”
Of the more than 500 newspaper columns I have written, maybe a dozen had some merit. But the vast majority of them are drivel.
At the risk producing more drivel, I have decided to discuss some of the littleknown and seldom explored aspects of writing a newspaper column this week.
First, I can tell you it’s not as easy as it once was.
When I started writing columns way back a long time ago, producing them seemed as easy as falling out of a boat. Just lean back, hold your nose and viola – you’re all wet.
But these days I’m like an old Pontiac you might see for sale on Facebook Marketplace. Plenty of dents, lots of rust, bald tires. Perhaps a mechanic’s special.
The ad might read: “Won’t go in reverse and won’t pass an emissions test. Also, it’s hard to start and stalls at high speed. But it’s a classic model that would make a great restoration project.
But I’m not sure I like the idea of being restored. Sounds like it would hurt.
And the columns probably wouldn’t change much if you did a complete overhaul.
One of my friends once described my columns as “quirky,” which is defined this way by Oxford Languages: “Characterized by peculiar or unexpected traits.”
I tried to take her assessment as a complement. Other adjectives have probably been applied by more aggressive critics, adjectives such as weird, stupid and pointless.
But you’ve got to do things your own way, even if you don’t get the reaction you want or the success you hoped for.
And you have to be prepared for existential loneliness and terror. To wit:
Writers are all fragile souls who need to feel they are appreciated and respected. And when a writer doesn’t get a lot of feedback, said writer can become a little unhinged.
Let me try to explain what I’m getting at.
Picture yourself walking down the street and you come upon a marquee with your name on it.
“Appearing weekly, (Insert your name)”
Your first reaction might be paralyzing horror.
“Me. What on Earth can I do to entertain anybody. I barely qualify as sentient.”
But when you arrive at the theatre for the show, the stage manager tells you that you will perform behind a two-way mirror. You won’t be able to see or hear the audience. You will not know if the audience is applauding, cheering, laughing or cursing the day you were born. So, you say what you
So, you say what you have to say, and you leave the theatre uncertain if your performance was well-received or scorned.
And no one tells you a thing.
But you have to go back the next week and do it again. Every week, you go back to that strange theater where the audience is hidden behind the mirror. All you see is yourself. All you hear are your own words.
It’s enough to turn you into a raving narcissist.
Years pass, but you persist because you believe that one day it will pay off. Perhaps, they’ll name a street or a bridge after you.
And then one day you are standing in line at the Dairy Queen in Eatonton, Georgia, and an elderly woman comes up to you and says, “Are you the one been writing them columns in the Messenger?”
You have now been unmasked. They know who you are. You are about to learn what they think.
It occurs to you that there are two possibilities: You are about be showered with praise or pursued through the streets of Eatonton by an angry mob.
So, you get cute and say to woman.
“Well, that depends, mam?”
But woman turns away from you.
She steps toward the counter, picks up her Blizzard and walks out.
You are tempted to chase her down and ask her what she thought of “them columns you been writing in the Messenger.”
But that would reveal that you’re somewhat needy, that the indifference you project is just a facade.
Like everyone else, you want to be accepted, appreciated, even adored.
So, you stand there looking out the window as the woman climbs in old pickup truck and leaves.
You came that close to finding out what at least one member of the audience sitting silently behind that two-way mirror thought.
“Sir are you going to place an order?” you hear someone saying.
You feel the eyes of the people in line behind your boring into your back.
But you recover quickly.
You look at the Dairy Queen order taker and you say.
“Cheeseburger, cheeseburger, cheeseburger. No Coke. Only Pepsi.”
Selah.