I’ve been writing this guide to reading for a year.
A while back, a reporter said to me, “Your column isn’t about reading, it’s about you.”
In retort, I quoted Dean Martin: “Everybody loves somebody sometime.”
Then I mimed sinking a 3-pointer.
Sign Up and Save
Get six months of free digital access to The Telegraph
This week’s column, I assure you, is not about me. It’s about my column.
(EDITOR’S NOTE: No, it’s not. You’re not writing a column about your column.)
Humph. Ms. Mister No Fun Esquire Ph.Dweeb has pooped the party.
So, excuse me, O Best Ones. I misspoke. This column is not about my column. It’s about a column about my column.
(EDITOR’S NOTE: You know ... never mind. Just ... never mind.)
In the column about my column, I have second thoughts about the task I have set for myself.
Writing 52 columns a year about reading isn’t easy. Sure, 51 is a piece of cake. I can do 51 standing on Mrs. Cool Kid’s head. And I like cake. Especially cake with icing bunched up like battlements.
But 52? Who am I, Sir Writesalot? Or some kind of justice-loving teen with a Tumblr account?
I know what you’re about to say, O Best Ones: If the Cool Kid thinks writing about reading is hard, he should try reading about writing.
Good point. But point it somewhere else, Capt. Aardvaark, because the column about my column is about my problems, not yours.
Just kidding. I like you. You’re like me. That’s what I like about you.
The good news is that by the time I reach the end of the column about my column, I am transformed by what I have written and come away with a renewed sense of purpose: i.e., getting a pet porpoise.
That and continuing to write about reading.
You’re welcome. Not at my house, natch, but nonetheless.
To contact writer Randy Waters, call 744-4240 or email firstname.lastname@example.org.