BEFORE COMING TO THE WEEKLY STANDARD, I was a newspaper columnist. And in the course of the many years that I practiced that dubious craft, the question I was asked most frequently was, “How do you come up with ideas?”
My response was something to the effect that a cursory reading of the daily press always gave me more than enough ingredients with which to cook 800 words–an answer which not only satisfied inquirers, but had the virtue of being true. In the fullness of time, however, I did adopt a few informal rules to govern my work.
First was the necessity of avoiding those hackneyed themes to which too many columnists resort. These include an “amusing” list of the differences between Democrats and Republicans; a lamentation for the loss of (a) retail manners, (b) good old-fashioned rock ‘n’ roll, (c) the idealism of the 1960s; and reasons why the writer (a) is offended by loud cell-phone conversations, (b) refuses to purchase some electronic gadget, (c) believes this last election was the dirtiest ever. And so on.
To my way of thinking, there is no lazier or less engaging approach to readers than to squeeze a sarcastic piece out of a mail solicitation from the wrong political party, or write variations on the theme of how things were better (a) before the war, (b) when I was in school, or (c) when Tip O’Neill ran Congress.
Since my columns tended to concentrate on issues in the news, such traps were generally missed. But, in essence, they all pointed to avoidance of the personal pronoun. Accordingly, I strictly prohibited such subjects as my beautiful wife, extraordinary children, endearing dog and goldfish, and beloved automobile. I never wrote an open letter to a newborn child, a reminiscence about how my old teacher taught me the meaning of integrity, a poignant tribute to a deceased relative, or an account of my travails in dealing with (a) the plumber, (b) computer prompts on telephones, or (c) the Department of Motor Vehicles.
If I had owned a second house in the Hamptons, I wouldn’t have shared the headaches of remodeling with readers. Any conversations between taxi drivers and me were strictly off the record. Finding a baseball mitt in the closet did not lead to bittersweet memories of playing catch with dear old Dad.
Now, however, I find myself in the unaccustomed position of having to write about myself for the benefit of readers. The purpose of the Casual you are reading, so I am told, is to put a face with the names that produce our magazine, and so ideas, abstractions, prescriptions, and policy–the customary substance of opinion-writing–are banished in favor of the dreaded personal pronoun.
After 35 years in journalism, this has not been an easy transition for me, and if the truth be told, some of my awkward attempts to endear myself to the reading public have fallen decisively flat.
In one piece, for example, I attempted to explain that, in contrast to most men my age, I am not especially interested in sports, especially professional sports. This was taken as an affront by many readers and, in one unfortunate instance, misunderstood by a colleague and friend to mean that I dislike all sports, professional or otherwise. Frankly, the fact that the publisher of The Weekly Standard was not able to distinguish between cool indifference and warm hostility was unfortunate, to be sure; but after hundreds of columns and thousands of letters from readers over the years, not entirely a surprise.
Then there was the column I wrote about commuting to work alone in my car, in which I (subtly) suggested that my alluring wife–who had just taken a new job a few blocks from the Standard offices–might wish to sample the wonders of Washington’s subway system before permanently disrupting my morning reverie.
Most readers, of course, were amused by my keen observations, smooth prose, and gentle humor (as they were meant to be); but my wife, for some unfathomable reason, was distinctly annoyed. I won’t say she has dwelt on the subject at undue length, but any references to that column have been spoken with a certain edge in her voice.
The meaning of this, it seems to me, is patently obvious: The ancient proscription against the overuse of “I” in journalism is not only sensible in theory, but affirmed in practice. Indeed, that would make an excellent subject for a future Casual, in my view; but, of course, that is not the purpose of these columns. So I will have to wait until next time to tell the amazing story of how I once removed a snake from a birdhouse in our yard, as my wide-eyed children watched from a distance.
My wife helped, too.
–Philip Terzian
