On writing columns…
About eleven years ago, I submitted an article to my local newspaper about a cartoonist. The editor liked it, ran it on the front page of the features section, and that was how I first came to know the thrill of a byline.
At the time, this newspaper also ran a weekly column titled “Readers Write.” As a guest columnist, I submitted a story about my dog, Winnie. In the weeks following, I received letters and email from strangers. They shared their own dog tales. They told me they liked my column. And so, I wrote more.
My column ran on that same front page of the “Living” section for a few years until a local chef with a talent for running restaurants and writing humor took over. My column was delegated to an inner page. Still, people wrote. I joined writers groups. I started freelancing for magazines. It seemed my dream of writing for real was underway.
Then, last year, my parents died. First, Dad in June and then Mom in March. With them I lost a large part of why I always tried to find the time to write the column. God knows, it wasn’t the $25 paycheck. On some subliminal level, I always aspired to write something of significance, something that would make them proud. Writing their obituaries and the words I shared at their memorial services made me realize just how much I had wanted to secure a Pulitzer while they were still on this Earth.
A few days ago, some intriguing soul joined the subscription service to my blog. He or she went so far as to calling the newspaper to see if I were still writing. And, this guy or gal took the time to ask why I had neglected to post a column since December. The only answer that seemed honest was simply that I didn’t know.
One of the things that I believe about columnists is that they are born with an internal mechanism unlike most folks. They view the world through a lens that filters what they see much like a prism compartmentalizes the colors of the visible spectrum.
There are people, places and events of interest. There are seasons and holidays and celebrations. There are emotions and sensations and perceptions. There are births and deaths and miracles. There are dogs. These are the things that have you sitting at the computer at 2 a.m., writing like there’s no tomorrow, because, well, there might not be. These are the things that today’s newspapers lack so severely in their content. And it’s a shame. Because voices like those of Bombeck, Grizzard, and Buckley have already faded and those hell bent on hawking wares and taking pot shots appear to be taking over.
So tonight, as I stood on my back deck and waited for the dogs to pee, I thought about writing columns. I watched the full moon cast luminescent strands of light through the shimmering branches of pines. The clouds chased past winking stars and the breeze carried the scent of jasmine and new grass. Spring enchanted me even in the darkness, the promise of renewal burgeoning on dogwood branches and azaleas bushes loaded with vibrant pink buds.
The dogs, all five of them, took care of business. They paraded across the back lot, digging and snorting after moles, their noses coated in freshly turned dirt. Daisy, the smallest one, took her place at my feet. And though we often accuse her of trying to talk, that’s exactly what she did.
“Look, I’ll tell you what to write, but just this one time. You don’t even have to give me credit."
But I know better. Who’s she kidding? We columnists live for the byline, even when our writing has gone to the dogs.
Thanks, Daisy. And thanks to those of you who keep reading and writing. Whether the column runs in newsprint or not, I will always count myself among those troubled minds who simply tell tales of the heart and pay homage to those who make the endeavor unfailingly worthwhile.
About eleven years ago, I submitted an article to my local newspaper about a cartoonist. The editor liked it, ran it on the front page of the features section, and that was how I first came to know the thrill of a byline.
At the time, this newspaper also ran a weekly column titled “Readers Write.” As a guest columnist, I submitted a story about my dog, Winnie. In the weeks following, I received letters and email from strangers. They shared their own dog tales. They told me they liked my column. And so, I wrote more.
My column ran on that same front page of the “Living” section for a few years until a local chef with a talent for running restaurants and writing humor took over. My column was delegated to an inner page. Still, people wrote. I joined writers groups. I started freelancing for magazines. It seemed my dream of writing for real was underway.
Then, last year, my parents died. First, Dad in June and then Mom in March. With them I lost a large part of why I always tried to find the time to write the column. God knows, it wasn’t the $25 paycheck. On some subliminal level, I always aspired to write something of significance, something that would make them proud. Writing their obituaries and the words I shared at their memorial services made me realize just how much I had wanted to secure a Pulitzer while they were still on this Earth.
A few days ago, some intriguing soul joined the subscription service to my blog. He or she went so far as to calling the newspaper to see if I were still writing. And, this guy or gal took the time to ask why I had neglected to post a column since December. The only answer that seemed honest was simply that I didn’t know.
One of the things that I believe about columnists is that they are born with an internal mechanism unlike most folks. They view the world through a lens that filters what they see much like a prism compartmentalizes the colors of the visible spectrum.
There are people, places and events of interest. There are seasons and holidays and celebrations. There are emotions and sensations and perceptions. There are births and deaths and miracles. There are dogs. These are the things that have you sitting at the computer at 2 a.m., writing like there’s no tomorrow, because, well, there might not be. These are the things that today’s newspapers lack so severely in their content. And it’s a shame. Because voices like those of Bombeck, Grizzard, and Buckley have already faded and those hell bent on hawking wares and taking pot shots appear to be taking over.
So tonight, as I stood on my back deck and waited for the dogs to pee, I thought about writing columns. I watched the full moon cast luminescent strands of light through the shimmering branches of pines. The clouds chased past winking stars and the breeze carried the scent of jasmine and new grass. Spring enchanted me even in the darkness, the promise of renewal burgeoning on dogwood branches and azaleas bushes loaded with vibrant pink buds.
The dogs, all five of them, took care of business. They paraded across the back lot, digging and snorting after moles, their noses coated in freshly turned dirt. Daisy, the smallest one, took her place at my feet. And though we often accuse her of trying to talk, that’s exactly what she did.
“Look, I’ll tell you what to write, but just this one time. You don’t even have to give me credit."
But I know better. Who’s she kidding? We columnists live for the byline, even when our writing has gone to the dogs.
Thanks, Daisy. And thanks to those of you who keep reading and writing. Whether the column runs in newsprint or not, I will always count myself among those troubled minds who simply tell tales of the heart and pay homage to those who make the endeavor unfailingly worthwhile.
