Write for your life

"If someone wants you, they should just tell you so." (A country song)

This day, like many, came and went in a physical sense, but it also had a story-like quality to it. Dropping the kids at school, with their backpacks and lunches, began the first of the day's many transitions. I had gotten a slew of text messages on my cell phone, one of them (as it turned out) from a colleague who had missed her bus to the train, meaning she would get to work late. The other messages seemed to be marketing pitches or words meant for another person. I was too confused while cooking breakfasts, finishing the hot part of the lunches (pasta, butter, grated cheese), showering, shaving and dressing, and bundling up both computers ( a Mac laptop and a PC laptop), to consider that my colleague’s message might actually be a plea for help. How easy it would have been to pick her up and get her to the office 45 minutes earlier than was otherwise possible for her.

It's small comfort, but a friend I used to send (flirtatious) messages to via text messaging never even bothered to answer; all she said was "you really suck at text messaging." So much so, apparently, she wouldn't even engage in harmless flirting with me, as I laboriously learned how to control those frisky buttons, even as she did so with others.

Not to worry. I had lunch with one of the loveliest, most idealistic young journalists I know: the kind of person we all once were, those of us who came out of the Sixties. She is almost 28 now, and her beauty and intelligence only grow with the passage of time. She is toiling for a newspaper, and suffering the all-too-common fate, these days, of an ever shrinking "news hole."

One story she told me broke my (journalistic) heart. She worked hard, gathering documents and sources for a story that, when properly constructed, ran to about 1500 words. Mind you, this is hardly long-form journalism. In my years at Rolling Stone, we frequently wrote 20,000 word pieces.

But those days are gone. My friend's story was too long, her editor told her, as she slashed it in half; perhaps 750 words were published.

After our lunch, I walked my young friend to her car, hugged her, picked her up (she is small and light), kissed her, and told her I love her. Because I do. I love her. Once, idealistic young journalists could look forward to a future where they might be able to make a difference; make things better. The "business" of news didn't force them to dumb down their work, cut it in half, leave out practically all of the documentation that would allow readers to draw their own conclusions and evaluate the reporter's work.

I hope my friend will continue to report and write far into the future, overcome the obstacles placed in her path, and follow her passions. She cares so deeply about the poor, and about kids, education, cities, the environment, justice, racial equality, families, and love. It made me happy to hear that her boyfriend is also a journalist and that he is good to her.

The future of journalism, wherever it lies in terms of technologies and channels, rests in the custody of people like her. Yes, I love her. We all should. Without journalists who care, we can expect all of our democratic institutions, albeit imperfect, to deteriorate further.

***

Tonight, I visited with my Baby Boomer memoir students and listened to their stories. This is perhaps the last American generation raised in a time when reading (and writing) was still the paramount communication method. The hegemony of film and TV were established during their childhoods, but most people spent much more time reading than watching TV, which in any event, was hardly the excessive supermarket of choice it is today.

In our childhoods, many of us experienced as much "snow" as we did content. Not only were there sometimes hours between shows; there were frequent technical breakdowns, rather like on today's Internet, but worse. Of course, as previously mentioned, the sound of that "snow" is actually the echo of the Big Bang -- such is the marvel of physics that we now know this to be true, though none of us did then. It just seemed like random sound, if somehow strangely compelling.

Now we know it is the echo of the sound of the birth of our universe. So, a wise acre could claim that while listening to a non-channel's buzz, he was actually studying physics and ancient, ancient history.

No one could refute his claim.

Anyway, I am a student among my memoir students. Their stories inspire me. Due to confidentiality, I cannot mention any of the particulars here. But I walk away from that class on Monday nights a richer man -- much richer in perspective than if I had only my own peculiar life to reflect upon.

After all, I live in an obsessive world of numbers, still, which is never a good sign, according to my therapists. Lately, for instance, I've been adding up my daughter's birthday days (of the month) (67 or 22.3 each) and comparing that figure with my sons (22 or 7.3 each.) It's like playing a mental football game. The girls win. Go Girls!

Then, I do the same exercise by age -- the girls total 64 (or 21.3 each); the boys 47 (15.7), so again the girls have it, but by a closer margin. Hmmm, I'm starting to feel bad for my sons.

Then, I cut it by birth month, and this gets more competitive. Girls 18 (ave. 6). Boys 20 (ave. 6.7). Go Boys!

I won't bore you with the geometry of their credit card sequences or any of the other formulae that convulse through my brain, seemingly at will.

Math games. That's one way I cope with stress. How about you?

***

Stories, like lives, begin. They have drama to them. They end.

This is the end of this one.

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